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ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 


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ELIZABETH 


ELIZABETH’S 

CAMPAIGN 

BY 

MRS.  HUMPHRY  WARD 

>•  !'  Al<“U 

AUTHOR  OF 

LADY  ROSE’S  DAUGHTER,  MISSING,  Etc. 

FRONTISPIECE  IN  COLOR  BY 

C.  ALLAN  GILBERT 


NEW  YORK 

GROSSET  & DUNLAP 

PUBLISHERS 


Copyright,  1918 

By  DODD,  MEAD  AND  COMPANY,  INC. 

Second  Rd’tion.  Printed  Oetotier  ai,  1918 
Third  Edition,  Printed  December  1918 
Fourth  Edition,  Printed  December,  1918 
Fifth  Edition,  Printed  February,  1919 


n'-i.  Vi 


TO  THE  DEAR  AND  GALLANT 
MEMORY 
OF 

T.  S.  A. 

PASSCHENDAELE,  OCTOBER  11.  1917 


FOREWORD 

This  book  was  finished  in  April  1918,  and  represents 
the  naood  of  a supremely  critical  moment  in  the  war. 

M.  A.  W. 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 


CHAPTER  I 

Remember,  Slater,  if  I am  detained,  that  I 
am  expecting  the  two  gentlemen  from  the 
War  Agricultural  Committee  at  six,  and 
Captain  Mills  of  the  Red  Cross  is  coming  to  dine  and 
sleep.  Ask  Lady  Chicksands  to  look  after  him  in 
case  I am  late — and  put  those  Tribunal  papers  in 
order  for  me,  by  the  way.  I really  must  go  properly 
into  that  Quaker  man’s  case — horrid  nuisance ! I 
hope  to  be  back  in  a couple  of  hours,  but  I can’t  be 
sure.  Hullo,  Beryl!  I thought  you  were  out.’ 

The  speaker.  Sir  Henry  Chicksands,  already 
mounted  on  his  cob  outside  his  own  front  door, 
turned  from  his  secretary,  to  whom  he  had  been 
giving  these  directions,  to  see  his  only  daughter 
hurrying  through  the  inner  hall  with  the  evident  in- 
tention of  catching  her  father  before  he  rode  off. 

She  ran  down  the  steps,  but  instead  of  speaking  at 
once  she  began  to  stroke  and  pat  his  horse’s  neck,  as 
though  doubtful  how  to  put  what  she  had  to  say. 

‘ Well,  Beryl,  what’s  the  matter?  ’ said  her  father 
impatiently.  The  girl,  who  was  slender  and  delicate 
in  build,  raised  her  face  to  his. 

‘ Are  you — are  you  really  going  to  Mannering, 
father?  ’ 


2 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 
‘ I am — worse  luck ! ’ 

‘You’ll  handle  him  gently,  won’t  you?’  There 
wp  anxiety  in  the  girl’s  voice.  ‘ But  of  course  you 
will — I know  you  will.’ 

Chicksands  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

‘ I shall  do  my  best.  But  you  know  as  well  as  I 
do  that  he’s  a queer  customer  when  it  comes  to  any- 
thing connected  with  the  war.’ 

The  girl  looked  behind  her  to  make  sure  that  the 
old  butler  of  the  house  had  retired  discreetly  out  of 
earshot. 

‘ But  he  can’t  quarrel  with  you,  father!  ’ 

‘ I hope  not — for  your  sake.’ 

‘ Must  you  really  tackle  him?  ’ 

‘Well,  I thought  I was  the  person  to  do  it.  It’s 
quite  certain  nobody  else  could  make  anything  of  it.’ 

Privately  Beryl  disagreed,  but  she  made  no  com- 
ment. 

‘ Aubrey  seems  to  be  pretty  worried,’  she  said.  In 
a depressed  tone,  as  she  turned  away. 

‘ I don’t  wonder.  He  should  have  brought  up  his 
father  better.  Well,  good-bye,  dear.  Don’t  bother 
too  much.’ 

She  waved  her  hand  to  him  as  he  made  off,  and 
stood  watching  him  from  the  steps — a gentle,  attach- 
ing figure,  her  fair  hair  and  the  pale  oval  of  her 
face  standing  out  against  the  panelled  hall  behind 
her. 

Her  father  went  his  way  down  a long  winding  hill 
beyond  his  own  grounds,  along  a country  road  lined 
with  magnificent  oaks,  through  a village  where  his 
practised  eye  noted  several  bad  cottages  with  dis- 
approval, till  presently  he  slackened  his  horse’s  pace, 
as  he  passed  an  ill-looking  farm  about  half  a mile 
beyond  the  village. 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 


3‘ 

‘ Not  a decent  gate  in  the  whole  place ! ’ he  said 
to  himself  with  disgust.  ‘ And  the  farm  buildings 
only  fit  for  a bonfire.  High  time  indeed  that  we 
made  Mannering  sit  up ! ’ 

He  paused  also  to  look  over  the  neighbour- 
ing hedge  at  some  fields  literally  choked  with 
weeds. 

‘ And  as  for  Gregson — lazy,  drunken  fellow ! 
Why  didn’t  he  set  some  village  women  on?  Just 
see  what  they’ve  done  on  my  place ! Hullo,  here  he 
is!  Now  I’m  in  for  it!  ’ For  he  saw  a slouching 
man  coming  rapidly  towards  him  from  the  farmyard, 
with  the  evident  intention  of  waylaying  him.  The 
man’s  shabby,  untidy  dress  and  blotched  complexion 
did  not  escape  Sir  Henry’s  quick  eye.  ‘ Seems  to 
have  been  making  a night  of  it,’  was  his  inward 
comment. 

‘ Good-day,  Sir  Henry,’  said  the  farmer,  laying  a 
hand  on  Chicksands’  bridle,  ‘ I wanted  a word  with 
you,  sir.  I give  you  fair  warning,  you  and  your 
Committee,  you’ll  not  turn  me  out  without  a fight! 

I was  never  given  no  proper  notice — and  there  are 
plenty  as  ’ll  stand  by  me.’ 

The  voice  was  thick  and  angry,  and  the  hand 
shook.  Sir  Henry  drew  his  horse  away,  and  the 
man’s  hold  dropped. 

‘ Of  course  you  had  every  notice,’  said  Sir  Henry 
drily. 

‘ I hadn’t,’  the  man  persisted.  ‘ If  the  letters  as 
they  talk  of  were  sent,  I never  saw  ’em.  And  when 
the  Committee  came  I was  out — on  business.  Can’t 
a man  be  out  on  his  lawful  business,  Sir  Flenry,  in- 
stead of  dancin’  attendance  on  men  as  know  no  bet- 
ter than  he?  The  way  this  Government  is  doing 
things — you  might  3s  well  live  under  the  Czar  of 


4 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 


Russia  as  in  this  country.  It’s  no  country  this  for 
free  men  now,  Sir  Henry.’ 

‘ The  Czar  of  Russia  has  come  to  grrief,  my  man, 
for  the  same  reason  that  you  have,’  said  Sir  Henry, 
gathering  up  the  reins,  ‘ for  shirking  his  duty.  All 
very  well  before  the  war,  but  now  we  can’t  afford 
this  kind  of  thing.’ 

‘ And  so  you’ve  told  the  Squire  to  turn  me  out?’ 
said  the  man  fiercely,  his  hands  on  his  sides. 

‘ You’ve  had  no  notice  from  Mr.  Mannering  yet?  ’ 

‘ Not  a word.’ 

‘ But  you’ve  heard  from  the  Inspection  Commit- 
tee? ’ 

The  man  nodded. 

‘ But  it’s  not  they  as  can  turn  me  out,  if  the 
Squire  don’t  agree.’ 

There  v/as  a note  of  surly  defiance  in  his  voice. 

‘ I don’t  know  about  that,’  said  Sir  Henry,  whose 
horse  was  getting  restive.  ‘ My  advice  to  you, 
Gregson,  is  to  take  it  quietly,  pull  yourself  together, 
and  get  some  other  work.  There’s  plenty  going 
nowadays.’ 

‘ Thank  you  for  nothing,  Sir  Henry.  I’ve  got 
plenty  to  advise  me — people  as  I set  more  store  by. 
I’ve  got  a wife  and  children,  sir,  and  I shan’t  give 
in  without  a fuss — you  may  be  sure  of  that.  Good- 
day  to  you.’ 

Sir  Henry  nodded  to  him  and  rode  off. 

‘ He’ll  go,  of  course,’  reflected  the  rider.  ‘ Our 
powers  are  quite  enough.  But  if  I can’t  get  Man- 
nering to  send  the  notice,  it’ll  be  a deal  more  trouble. 
Hullo,  here’s  some  one  else ! This  is  another  pair 
of  boots ! ’ 

He  had  scarcely  turned  the  corner  beyond  the 
farm  when  another  man  came  running  down  the 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 


5 

sloping  field,  calling  to  him.  Sir  Henry  pulled  up 
his  horse  again.  But  his  aspect  had  changed,  and 
his  voice  took  another  note. 

‘ Did  you  want  to  speak  to  me,  Adam?  A nice 
day,  isn’t  it  ? ’ 

‘ I saw  you.  Sir  Henry,  from  the  top  of  the  field, 
talking  to  Gregson  in  the  road,  and  I thought  per- 
haps you’d  let  me  have  a few  words  with  you.  You 
know,  sir,  this  is  awfully  hard  lines.’ 

Sir  Henry  looked  impatient,  but  the  man  who  had 
spoken  to  him  was  a fine  specimen  of  young  man- 
hood— broad-shouldered,  clear-eyed,  with  a natural 
dignity  of  manner,  not  at  all  a person  to  be  brushed 
aside. 

‘ I’m  sure  you  can’t  defend  Gregson,  Adam,’  said 
Sir  Flenry,  ‘ you — one  of  the  best  farm.ers  in  the 
district!  I wish  they  had  put  you  on  the  Inspection 
Committee.’ 

‘ Well,  they  didn’t,’  said  the  other,  perhaps  with 
a slight  emphasis.  ‘ And  there’s  many  of  us  feel,  I 
can  assure  you,  as  I do.  Gregson’s  a poor  creature, 
but  he  hasn’t  had  quite  fair  play.  Sir  Henry — that’s 
what  Vt^e  feel.  And  he’s  been  fifteen  years  on  his 
place.’  The  man  spoke  hesitatingly,  but  strongly. 
There  was  a queer,  suppressed  hostility  in  his  pleas- 
ant blue  eyes. 

‘ Fifteen  years  too  long,’  interrupted  Sir  Henry. 
‘ I tell  you,  Adam,  we  can’t  afford  now  to  let  men 
like  Gregson  spoil  good  land  while  the  country’s 
likely  to  go  hungry  1 The  old  happy-go-lucky  days 
are  done  with.  I wonder  whether  even  you  recog- 
nize that  we’re  fighting  for  our  lives?  ’ 

‘ I know  we  are,  Sir  Henry.  But  if  the  war  makes 
slaves  of  us  what  good  will  it  do  if  we  do  win  it?  ’ 

Sir  Henry  laughed.  ‘ Well,  Adam,  you  were  al- 


6 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 


ways  a Radical  and  I was  always  a Conservative. 
And  I don’t  like  being  managed  any  more  than  you 
do.  But  look  at  the  way  I’m  managed  in  my  busi- 
ness ! — harried  up  and  down  by  a parcel  of  young 
fellows  from  the  Ministry  that  often  seem  to  me 
fools!  But  we’ve  all  got  to  come  in.  And  this 
country’s  worth  it  I ’ 

‘ You  know  I’m  with  you  there,  sir.  But  why 
don’t  you  get  at  the  Squire  himself?  What  good 
have  he  or  his  agent  ever  been  to  anybody?  You’re 
a landlord  worth  living  under;  but ’ 

‘ Ah  I don’t  be  in  too  great  a hurry,  Adam,  and 
you’ll  see  what  you  will  seel  ’ And  with  a pleasant 
salute,  his  handsome  face  twitching  between  frowns 
and  smiles.  Sir  Henry  rode  on.  ‘ What  trade  union- 
ists we  all  are — high  and  low ! That  man’s  as  good 
a farmer  as  Gregson’s  a vile  one.  But  he  stands  by 
his  like,  as  I stand  by  mine.’ 

Then  bis  thoughts  took  a different  turn.  He  was 
entering  a park,  evidently  of  wide  extent,  and  finely 
wooded.  The  road  through  it  had  long  fallen  out  of 
repair,  and  was  largely  grass-grown.  A few  sheep 
were  pasturing  on  it,  and  a few  estate  cottages 
showed  here  and  there.  Sir  Henry  looked  about 
him  with  quick  eyes.  He  understood  that  the  In- 
spection Sub-Committee,  constituted  under  the  Corn 
Production  Act,  and  on  the  look-out  for  grass-land 
to  put  under  the  plough,  had  recommended  the 
ploughing  up  of  all  this  further  end  of  Mannering 
Park.  It  carried  very  few  sheep  under  its  present 
management;  and  the  herd  of  Jersey  cattle  that  used 
to  graze  it  had  long  since  died  out.  As  for  the 
game,  it  had  almost  gone — before  the  war.  No  use, 
either  for  business  or  play! 

Then — on  this  early  autumn  day  of  1917 — Sir 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 


7 

Henry  fell  to  musing  on  the  vast  changes  coming 
over  England  in  consequence  of  the  war.  ‘ Who 
would  ever  have  believed  that  we — we  should  put 
ourselves  to  school  as  we  have  done?  Military 
.service,  rations,  food-prices,  all  our  businesses  “ con- 
trolled,” and  now  our  land  looked  after!  How 
much  of  it  has  come  to  stay?  Well,  it  won’t  affect 
me  much!  Ah!  Is  that  the  Rector?’ 

For  a hundred  yards  ahead  of  him  he  perceived  a 
clerical  figure,  spare  and  tall,  in  a wideawake 
hat,  swinging  towards  him.  The  September  sun 
was  westering,  and  behind  the  approaching  man 
lay  broad  stretches  of  wood,  just  showing  here  and 
there  the  first  bronze  and  purple  signs  of  au- 
tumn. 

The  Rector,  recognizing  the  solitary  rider,  waved 
his  hand  in  welcome,  and  Sir  Henry  pulled  up.  The 
two  men,  who  were  evidently  personal  friends,  ex- 
changed greetings. 

‘ You’re  going  to  the  Hall,  Sir  Henry?  ’ said  the 
Rector. 

Sir  Henry  described  his  business. 

The  Rector  shook  his  head  reflectively. 

‘ You  haven’t  announced  yourself,  I hope?  ’ 

‘ No,  I took  that  simple  precaution.  I suppose 
he’s  already  pretty  savage?’ 

‘With  whom?  The  Committee?  Yes,  you  won’t 
find  him  easy  to  deal  with.  But  just  at  present 
there’s  a distraction.  His  new  secretary  arrived 
some  weeks  ago,  and  he  now  spends  his  v/hole  time, 
from  morning  till  night,  dictating  to  her  and  shov/- 
ing  her  his  things.’ 

‘Secretary?  A woman?  Good  heavens!  Who 
is  she  ? ’ 

‘ A great  swell,  I understand.  Oxford  First 


8 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 


Class  in  Mods,  Second  in  Greats.  I’ve  only  just 
seen  her.  A striking-looking  person.’ 

‘ Why  isn’t  she  in  France,  or  doing  munition 
work?’  growled  Sir  Henry. 

‘ I don’t  know.  I suppose  she  has  her  reasons. 
She  seems  patriotic  enough.  But  I’ve  only  ex- 
changed a few  words  with  her,  at  a very  hurried 
luncheon,  at  which,  by  the  way,  theie  was  a great 
deal  too  much  to  eat.  She  and  Pamela  disappeared 
directly  afterwards.’ 

‘ Oh,  so  Pamela’s  at  home?  What’s  the  name  of 
the  new  woman?  I suppose  she’s  to  chaperon 
Pamela  ? ’ 

‘ I shouldn’t  wonder.  Her  name  is  Miss  Bremer- 
ton.’ 

‘ Beryl  declares  that  Pamela  is  going  to  be  a 
beauty — and  clever  besides.  She  used  to  be  a jolly 
child.  But  then  they  go  to  school  and  grow  up 
quite  different.  I’ve  hardly  seen  her  for  a year  and 
a half.’ 

‘Well,  you’ll  judge  for  yourself.  Good  luck  to 
you!  I don’t  envy  you  your  job.’ 

‘ Good  Lord,  no ! But  you  see  I’m  Chairman  of 
this  blessed  show,  and  they  all  fixed  on  me  to  bell 
the  cat.  We  want  a hundred  acres  of  the  Park,  a 
new  agent,  notices  for  three  farmers,  etcetera ! ’ 

The  Rector  whistled.  ‘ I shall  wait,  on  tiptoe,  to 
see  what  happens!  What  are  your  powers?’ 

‘ Oh,  tremendous ! ’ 

‘ So  you  have  him?  Well,  good-day.’ 

And  the  Rector  was  passing  on.  But  Sir  Henr\^ 
stooped  over  his  horse’s  neck — ‘ As  you  know,  per- 
haps, it  would  be  very  inconvenient  to  my  poor  little 
Beryl  if  Mannering  were  to  make  a quarrel  of  it 
with  me.’ 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 


9 


‘ Ah,  I gathered  that  she  and  Aubrey  were  en- 
gaged,’ said  the  Rector  cordially.  ‘ Best  congratu- 
lations! Has  the  Squire  behaved  well?  ’ 

‘ Moderately.  He  declares  he  has  no  money  to 
give  them.’ 

‘ And  yet  he  spent  eighteen  hundred  pounds  last 
week  at  that  Christie  sale ! ’ said  the  Rector  with  a 
laugh.  ‘ And  now  I suppose  the  new  secretary  will 
add  fuel  to  the  flame.  I saw  Pamela  for  a minute 
alone,  and  she  said  Miss  Bremerton  was  “just  as 
much  gone  on  Greek  things  as  father,”  and  they 
were  like  a pair  of  lunatics  when  the  new  vases 
came  down.’ 

‘ Oh,  blow  the  secretary ! ’ said  Sir  Henry  with 
exasperation.  ‘ And  meanwhile  his  daughters  can’t 
get  a penny  out  of  him  for  any  war  purpose  what- 
ever! Well,  I must  go  on.’ 

They  parted,  and  Sir  Henry  put  his  cob  into  a 
sharp  trot  which  soon  brought  him  in  sight  of  a 
distant  building — low  and  irregular — surrounded  by 
trees,  and  by  the  wide  undulating  slopes  of  the  park. 

‘ Dreadfully  ugly  place,’  he  said  to  himself,  as 
the  house  grew  plainer;  ‘ rebuilt  at  the  worst  time, 
by  a man  with  no  more  taste  than  a broomstick. 
Still,  he  was  the  sixteenth  owner,  from  father  to 
son.  That’s  something.’ 

And  he  fell  to  thinking,  with  that  half-ironic  de- 
preciation which  he  allowed  to  himself,  and  would 
have  stood  from  no  one  else,  of  his  own  brand-new 
Georgian  house,  built  from  the  plans  of  a famous 
American  architect,  ten  years  before  the  war,  out 
of  the  profits  of  an  abnormally  successful  year,  and 
furnished  in  what  he  believed  to  be  faultless  taste  by 
the  best  professional  decorator  he  could  find. 

‘ Yet  compared  to  a Mannering,  what  do  I mean 


10 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 


to  the  people  here?  You  scarcely  begin  to  take 
root  in  this  blessed  country  under  half  a century. 
Mannering  is  exceedingly  unpopular;  the  people 
think  him  a selfish  idler;  but  if  he  chose  he  could 
whistle  them  back  with  a hundredth  part  of  the 
trouble  it  would  take  me ! And  if  Aubrey  wanted 
to  go  into  Parliament,  he’d  probably  have  his  pick 
of  the  county  divisions.  Curious  fellow,  Aubrey! 
I wonder  exactly  what  Beryl  sees  in  him?  ’ 

His  daughter’s  prospects  were  not  indeed  very 
clear  to  a mind  that  liked  everything  cut  and  dried. 
Aubrey  Mannering  was  the  Squire’s  eldest  son;  but 
the  Squire  was  not  rich,  and  had  been  for  years  past 
wasting  his  money  on  Greek  antiquities,  which 
seemed  to  his  neighbours,  including  Sir  Henry 
Chicksands,  a very  dubious  investment.  If  Aubrey 
should  want  to  sell,  who  was  going  to  buy  such 
things  at  high  prices  after  the  war?  No  doubt 
prices  at  Christie’s — for  good  stuff — had  been 
keeping  up  very  well.  That  was  because  of  war 
profits.  People  were  throwing  money  about  now. 
But  when  the  war  industries  came  to  an  end?  and 
the  national  bills  had  to  be  paid? 

‘ The  only  thing  that  can’t  go  down  is  land,’ 
thought  Sir  Henry,  with  the  cheerful  consciousness 
of  a man  who  had  steadily  year  by  year  increased 
what  had  originally  been  a very  modest  property  to 
something  like  a large  estate. 

Mannering  had  plenty  of  that  commodity.  But 
how  far  had  he  dipped  the  estate?  It  must  be 
heavily  mortgaged.  By  decent  management  any- 
body, no  doubt,  might  still  bring  it  round.  ‘ But 
Aubrey’s  not  the  man.  And  since  he  joined  up  at 
the  beginning  of  the  war  the  Squire  won’t  let  him 
have  a voice  in  anything.  And  now  Desmond — by 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 


1 1 

George,  the  twins  are  nineteen  this  month ! — Des- 
mond ’ll  be  off  directly.  And  then  his  father  will 
be  madder  than  ever.’ 

By  this  time  the  ugly  house  was  near  at  hand,  and 
the  thick  woods  which  surrounded  it  had  closed 
about  the  horse  and  rider.  , 

‘ Splendid  timber,’  thought  Sir  Henry,  as  he  rode 
through  it,  measuring  it  with  a commercial  eye,  ‘ but 
all  past  its  prime,  and  abominably  neglected  . . . 
Hullo ! that  looks  like  Pamela,  and  the  new  woman 
V— the  secretary ! ’ 

For  two  ladies  were  coming  down  the  drive  to- 
wards him,  with  a big  white  and  tan  collie  jumping 
round  them.  One  of  them,  very  tall  and  erect,  was 
dressed  in  a dark  coat  and  skirt,  reasonably  short,  a 
small  black  toque,  and  brown  boots  and  leggings. 
The  close-fitting  coat  showed  a shapely  but  quite 
substantial  figure.  She  carried  a stick,  and  walked 
with  a peculiarly  rapid  and  certain  step.  The  young 
girl  beside  her  seemed  by  comparison  a child.  She 
wore  a white  dress,  in  keeping  with  the  warm  Sep- 
tember day,  and  with  it  a dark  blue  sports  coat,  and 
a shady  hat.  Her  dress  only  just  passed  her  knees, 
and  beneath  it  the  slender  legs  and  high  heels  drew 
Sir  Henry’s  disapproving  eye.  He  hated  extrava- 
gance in  anything.  Beryl  managed  to  look  fashion- 
able, without  looking  outre,  as  Pamela  did.  But  he 
reined  up  to  greet  her  with  ready  smiles. 

‘Well,  Pamela,  jolly  to  see  you  at  home  again! 
My  word,  you’ve  grown  1 Shall  I find  your  father 
in?  ’ 

‘ Yes,  we  left  him  in  the  library.  May  I Intro- 
duce Miss  Bremerton — Sir  Henry  Chicksands.’ 
The  girl  spoke  with  hurried  shyness,  the  quick  colour 
in  her  cheeks.  The  lady  beside  her  bowed,  and  Sir 


12 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 


Henry  took  off  his  hat.  Each  surveyed  the  other. 

‘ A strong-minded  female  ! ’ thought  Sir  Henry,  who 
was  by  no  means  advanced  in  his  views  of  the  other 
sex. 

‘ The  strong-minded  female,’  however,  was  not,  it 
seemed,  of  the  talkative  kind.  She  remained  quite 
silent  while  Pamela  and  Sir  Henry  exchanged  some 
family  gossip,  with  her  ungloved  hand  caressing  the 
nose  of  the  collie,  who  was  pressing  against  her 
with  intrusive  friendliness.  But  her  easy  self- 
possession  as  contrasted  with  Pamela’s  nervousness 
was  all  the  time  making  an  impression  on  Sir  Henry, 
as  was  also  the  fact  of  her  general  good  looks. 
Not  a beauty — not  at  all;  but,  as  the  Rector  had 
said,  ‘ striking.’ 

As  for  Pamela,  what  was  the  matter  with  the 
child?  Until  Beryl’s  name  was  mentioned,  there 
was  not  a smile  to  be  got  out  of  her.  And  it  was 
a very  fleeting  one  when  it  came.  Desmond’s  name 
fared  a little  better.  At  that  the  girl  did  at  last 
raise  her  beautiful  eyes,  which  till  then  she  had 
hardly  allowed  to  be  seen,  and  there  was  a ray  in 
them. 

‘ He’s  here  on  leave,’  she  said;  ‘ a few  days.  He’s 
just  got  his  Commission  and  been  accepted  for  the 
artillery.  He  goes  into  camp  next  week.  He  thinks 
he’ll  be  out  by  January.’ 

‘ We  must  certainly  manage  to  see  him  before  he 
goes,’  said  Sir  Henry  heartily.  Then  turning  to 
Miss  Bremerton  with  the  slightly  over-emphatic 
civility  of  a man  who  prides  himself  on  his  manners 
in  all  contingencies,  he  asked  her  if  she  was 
already  acquainted  with  the  Mannering  neighbour- 
hood. 

Miss  Bremerton  replied  that  it  was  quite  unknown 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 


13 

to  her.  ‘ You’ll  admire  our  trees,’  said  Sir  Henry. 

‘ They’re  very  fine.’ 

‘ Are  they?  ’ said  the  lady  rather  absently,  giving 
a perfunctory  glance  to  the  woods  sloping  away  on 
her  right  towards  a little  stream  winding  in  the 
hollow.  Sir  Henry  felt  a slight  annoyance.  He 
was  a good  fellow,  and  no  more  touchy  as  to  per- 
sonal dignity  than  the  majority  of  men  of  his  age 
and  class.  But  he  was  accustomed  to  be  treated 
with  a certain  deference,  and  in  Miss  Bremerton’s 
manner  there  was  none  whatever. 

‘ Well,  good-bye,  Pamela.  I mustn’t  miss  your 
father.  When  are  you  coming  over  to  see  Beryl?’ 

‘ How  am  I to  get  there  ? ’ said  the  girl  with  a 
sudden  laugh. 

‘ Oh,  I see,  you’ve  got  no  petrol  allowance?  ’ 

‘ How  should  we  ? Nobody’s  doing  any  war  work 
here.’ 

There  was  an  odd  note  in  the  speaker’s  voice. 

‘ Why  don’t  you  join  Beryl  in  her  canteen  work?  ’ 
said  Sir  Henry  abruptly. 

‘ I don’t  know.’ 

‘ She  wants  help  badly.  She  passes  your  gate  on 
her  way  to  Fallerton.  She  could  pick  you  up,  and 
bring  you  back.’ 

‘ Yes,’  said  Pamela.  There  was  a pause. 

‘Well,  good-bye,  dear,’  said  Sir  Henry  again,  and 
with  a ceremonious  bow  to  Pamela’s  companion,  he 
rode  on — meditating  on  many  things. 

‘ The  Squire’s  in.  Sir  Henry,  but — ^well,  he’s  very 
busy.’ 

‘ Never  mind.  Forest.  I must  see  him.  Can  you 
find  some  one  to  take  my  horse  round?  ’ 

The  grey-haired  butler  looked  perplexed. 


14 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 


‘ I’ve  only  got  my  own  small  boy.  Sir  Henry. 
There’s  two  more  of  our  men  gone  this  morning. 

I don’t  know  if  you’ll  trust  him.  He’s  a good  boy.’ 

‘ Send  him  along,  Forest.  My  beast’s  a lamb — 
you  know  him.  But  look  here.  Forest  ’ — Sir  Henry 
dismounted,  bridle  in  hand.  ‘ Don’t  give  the  Squire 
notice  that  I’m  here,  if  you  can  help  it,  till  you 
announce  me.’ 

The  butler,  who,  in  spite  of  his  grey  hair,  was  a 
square-set,  vigorous-looking  fellow,  might  be  said, 
in  reply,  to  have  given  the  Squire’s  visitor  a wink. 
At  any  rate  a look  of  understanding  passed  betv/een 
the  two.  The  butler  went  quickly  back  into  the 
house,  and  re-emerged  with  a boy,  who  was  the 
small  image  of  his  father,  to  whom  Sir  Henry  cheer- 
fully gave  up  his  cob.  But  as  Forest  led  the  way 
through  the  outer  hall  he  stopped  to  say: 

‘ The  Squire’s  not  alone,  sir.  There  was  a gentle- 
man arrived  just  as  Miss  Pamela  w’ent  out.  But  I 
don’t  think  he’ll  stay  long.’ 

‘Who  is  he?’ 

‘ Can’t  say,  sir.  He’s  lodging  in  the  village,  and 
comes  to  see  the  Squire’s  collections  sometimes.’ 

They  were  now  in  a long  passage  running  along 
the  eastern  front  of  the  house  to  a large  room  which 
had  been  added  to  its  southern  end,  in  order  to 
hold  the  Squire’s  library  and  collections.  Midway 
the  butler  turned. 

‘ You’ve  heard.  Sir  Henry,  about  Mr.  Desmond?  ’ 

‘ Yes,  Miss  Pamela  told  me.’ 

‘ Mr.  Desmond  says  he’ll  be  in  France  by  Jan- 
uary. He’s  as  pleased  as  possible,  but  it’s  a deal 
sooner  than  Mr.  Mannering  hoped.’ 

‘ Well,  we’ve  all  got  to  take  our  chance  in  this 
war,’  said  Sir  Henry  gravely.  ‘ And  the  artillery  is 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 


IS 

a bit  safer  than  the  infantry.  You  know  my  son 
Arthur’s  a gunner.’ 

‘ I hope  he’s  all  right,  sir?  ’ 

‘ Well,  he’s  still  on  light  work.  He  comes  home 
this  week  for  a bit.  He  was  gassed  at  Ypres  a year 
and  a half  ago,  and  had  a bullet  taken  out  of  his 
chest  about  two  months  since.  But  he  is  nearly  fit 
again.’ 

The  butler  expressed  his  sympathy  with  a com- 
plete absence  of  shyness  or  servility,  then  threw 
open  a door  at  the  end  of  the  passage,  announcing, 
‘ Sir  Henry  Chicksands,  sir.’ 

‘ D — mni*  said  a voice  loudly  within. 

Sir  Henry  gave  an  involuntary  start.  Another 
look  passed  between  him  and  Forest,  amused  or 
interrogative  on  the  visitor’s  part,  non-committal 
on  the  butler’s. 

The  library  of  Mannering  Hall  as  Sir  Henry 
Chicksands  entered  it  presented  a curious  spectacle. 
It  was  a long,  barn-like  room,  partly  lined  with 
books,  and  partly  with  glass  cases,  in  which  Greek 
vases,  Tanagra  figures,  and  other  Greek  and 
Etruscan  antiquities,  all  carefully  marked  and 
labelled,  were  displayed.  A few  large  tables  stood 
at  intervals  on  the  shabby  carpet,  also  laden  with 
books  and  specimens.  They  conveyed  an  impression 
of  dust  and  disorder,  as  though  no  housemaid  had 
been  allowed  to  touch  them  for  weeks — with  one 
exception.  A table,  smaller  than  the  rest,  but  ar- 
ranged with  scrupulous  neatness,  stood  at  one  side 
of  the  room,  with  a typewriter  upon  it,  certain 
books,  and  a rack  for  stationery.  A folded  duster 
lay  at  one  corner.  Pens,  pencils,  a box  of  clips,  and 
a gum-pot  stood  where  a careful  hand  had  placed 


i6 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 


them.  And  at  a corner  corresponding  to  the  duster 
was  a small  vase  of  flowers — autumnal  roses — the 
only  flowers  in  the  room. 

But  the  various  untidy  accumulations,  most  of 
which  seemed  to  be  of  old  standing,  had  been  evi- 
dently just  added  to  by  some  recent  arrivals.  Four 
large  packing-cases,  newly  opened,  took  up  much  of 
what  free  space  was  left  on  the  floor.  The  straw, 
paper,  and  cottonwool,  in  which  their  contents  had 
been  packed,  had  been  tossed  out  with  a careless  or 
Impatient  hand,  and  littered  the  carpet.  Among 
the  litter  stood  here  and  there  some  Greek  vases  of 
different  sizes;  in  particular,  a superb  pair,  covered 
with  figures;  beside  which  stood  the  owner  of  Man- 
nering,  talking  to  an  apparently  young  man  with  an 
eye-glass,  who  was  sitting  on  the  floor  closely  ex- 
amining the  vases.  The  Squire  turned  a furrowed 
brow  towards  his  approaching  visitor,  and  putting 
down  a small  bronze  he  had  been  holding  raised  a 
warning  hand. 

‘How  do  you  do,  Chicksands?  Very  sorry,  but 
I’m  much  too  filthy  to  touch.  And  I’m  horribly 
busy  I These  things  arrived  last  night,  and  Mr. 
Levasseur  has  kindly  come  over  to  help  me  unpack 
them.  Don’t  know  if  you’ve  met  him.  Mr.  Levas- 
seur— Sir  Henry  Chicksands.’ 

The  man  on  the  floor  looked  up  carelessly,  just 
acknowledging  Sir  Henry’s  slight  inclination.  Sir 
Henry’s  Inner  mind  decided  against  him — at  once — 
Instinctively.  What  was  a stout  fellow,  who  at  any 
rate  looked  as  though  he  were  still  of  military  age, 
doing  with  nonsense  of  this  sort,  at  four  o’clock  in 
the  day,  when  England  wanted  every  able-bodied 
man  she  possessed,  either  to  fight  for  her  or  to  work 
for  her?  At  the  same  time  the  reflection  passed 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 


17 

rapidly  through  his  mind  that  neither  the  man  nor 
the  name  had  come  up — so  far  as  he  could  remem- 
ber— before  the  County  Tribunal  of  which  he  was 
Chairman. 

‘ Well,  Chicksands,  what  do  you  want  with  me?  ’ 
said  the  Squire  abruptly.  ‘ Will  you  take  a chair?  ’ 
And  he  pointed  to  one  from  which  he  hastily  re- 
moved a coat. 

‘ I have  some  confidential  business  to  talk  to  you 
about,’  said  Sir  Henry,  with  a look  at  the  dusty 
gentleman  among  the  straw. 

‘ Something  you  want  me  to  do  that  I’ll  be  bound 
I shan’t  want  to  do  I Is  that  it?’  said  Mannering 
with  vivacity. 

He  stood  with  his  hands  on  a table  behind  him, 
his  long  spare  frame  in  a nervous  fidget,  his  eyes 
bright  and  hostile,  and  a spot  of  red  on  either  thin 
cheek.  Beside  Chicksands,  who  was  of  middle 
height,  solidly  built,  and  moderately  stout,  with 
mental  and  physical  competence  written  all  over 
him,  the  Squire  of  Mannering  seemed  but  the  snip- 
pet of  a man.  He  was  singularly  thin,  with  a 
slender  neck,  and  a small  head  covered  with  thick 
hair,  prematurely  white,  which  tumbled  over  his 
forehead  and  eyes.  He  had  the  complexion  of  a 
girl,  disproportionately  large  nose,  very  sharply  and 
delicately  cut  as  to  bridge  and  nostril,  and  a mouth 
and  chin  which  seemed  to  be  in  perpetual  move- 
ment. He  looked  older  than  Sir  Henry,  who  was 
verging  on  sixty,  but  he  was  in  fact  just  over  fifty. 

Sir  Henry  smiled  a little  at  the  tone  of  the 
Squire’s  question,  but  he  answered  good-humour- 
edly. 

‘ I believe,  when  we’ve  talked  it  over,  you  won’t 
think  it  unreasonable.  But  I’ve  come  to  explain.’ 


i8 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 


‘ I know,  you  want  me  to  give  Gregson  notice. 
But  I warn  you  I’m  not  the  least  inclined  to  do  any- 
thing of  the  kind.’  And  the  speaker  crossed  his 
arms,  which  were  very  long  and  thin,  over  a narrow 
chest,  while  his  eyes  restlessly  countered  those  of 
Sir  Henry. 

Chicksands  paused  a moment  before  replying. 

‘ I have  a good  many  papers  here  to  show  you,’ 
he  said  at  last,  mildly,  drawing  a large  envelope 
half-way  from  the  inner  pocket  of  his  coat  to  illus- 
trate his  words,  and  then  putting  it  back  again.  ‘ But 
I really  can’t  discuss  them  except  with  yourself.’ 

The  Squire’s  eyes  shot  battle. 

‘ It’s  the  war,  of  course,’  he  said  with  emphasis; 
‘ it’s  all  the  war.  I’m  told  to  do  things  I don’t  want 
to  do,  which  affect  my  personal  freedom,  and  other 
people’s,  because  of  a war  I don’t  believe  in,  never 
asked  for,  and  don’t  approve  of.  Here’s  Levasseur 
now,  a clever  fellow,  cleverer  than  either  you  or 
me,  Chicksands,  and  he’s  no  more  patriotic  than  I 
am.  You  talk  to  him!’ 

‘ Thank  you.  I’m  too  busy,’  said  Sir  Henry 
sharply,  his  face  stiffening.  ‘ Where  can  you  see  me, 
Mannering?  I’m  rather  pressed  for  time.  Is  the 
smoking-room  free?’  And  with  a marked  avoid- 
ance of  any  concern  with  the  gentleman  on  the  floor, 
who  had  by  now  risen  to  his  feet.  Sir  Henry  made 
an  impatient  movement  towards  a door  at  the  fur- 
ther end  of  the  library  which  stood  ajar. 

Levasseur  looked  amused.  He  was  a strongly- 
built,  smooth-shaven  fellow,  with  rather  long  hair, 
and  the  sallow  look  of  the  cigarette-smoker.  His 
eyes  were  sleepy,  his  expression  indolent  or  good- 
natured. 

‘ Oh,  I’ll  make  myself  scarce  with  the  greatest 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 


19 


pleasure,’  he  said  civilly.  ‘ I can  stroll  about  the 
park  till  you’re  ready  for  me  again,’  he  added, 
turning  to  the  Squire.  ‘ Lovely  day — I’ll  take  a 
book  and  some  cigarettes.’  And  diving  into  an  open 
box  which  stood  near  he  filled  his  cigarette-case 
from  it,  and  then  looked  round  him  for  a book. 
‘Where’s  that  copy  of  the  Anthology?  That’ll  do 
nicely.’ 

The  Squire  burst  into  a laugh,  observing  Sir 
Henry. 

‘ He’s  over  military  age,  Chicksands.’ 

‘ I suppose  so,’  said  Sir  Henry  stiffly. 

‘ But  only  by  six  months,  when  the  Act  passed. 
So  he’s  just  escaped  you.’ 

‘ I’ve  really  no  concern  whatever  with  Mr.  Levas- 
seur’s  affairs.’  Sir  Henry  had  flushed  angrily.  ‘ Is 
it  to  be  here,  or  the  smoking-room?  ’ 

‘Ta-ta!  See  you  again  presently,’  said  Levas- 
seur.  ‘ Ah,  there’s  the  book!  ’ And  diving  to  the 
floor  for  a hat  and  a book  lying  beside  it,  he  made 
off,  lighting  a cigarette,  with  a laughing  backward 
glance  towards  the  Squire  and  his  companion. 

‘Well,  now,  what  is  it?’  said  Mannering,  throw- 
ing himself  with  an  air  of  resignation  into  a low 
arm-chair,  and  taking  out  a pipe.  ‘ Won’t  you 
smoke,  Chicksands?’ 

‘ Thank  you.  I’ve  had  my  morning’s  allowance. 
Hullo!  Who  did  that?  What  an  awfully  fine 
thing!  ’ 

For  suddenly,  behind  the  Squire’s  head,  Chick- 
sands had  become  aware  of  an  easel,  and  on  it  a 
charcoal  sketch,  life-size,  of  a boy,  who  seemed 
about  eighteen  or  nineteen,  in  cricketing  dress. 

The  Squire  looked  round. 

‘What,  that  sketch  of  Desmond?  Haven’t  you 


20  ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 

seen  it?  Yes,  It’s  jolly  good.  I got  Orpen  to  do  It 
In  July.’ 

Now  that  Sir  Henry  had  once  perceived  the  draw- 
ing It  seemed  to  him  to  light  up  the  whole  place. 
The  dress  was  the  dress  of  the  Eton  Eleven;  there 
was  just  a suggestion  of  pale  blue  in  the  sash  round 
the  waist.  But  the  whole  impression  was  Greek  in 
Its  manly  freedom  and  beauty;  above  all  in  its  sacri- 
fice of  all  useless  detail  to  one  broad  and  simple 
effect.  Youth,  eager,  strong,  self-confident,  with  its 
innocent  parted  lips,  and  its  steadfast  eyes  looking 
out  over  the  future — the  drawing  stood  there  as  the 
quintessence,  the  embodiment,  of  a whole  genera- 
tion. So  might  the  young  Odysseus  have  looked 
when  he  left  his  mother  on  his  first  journey  to 
hunt  the  boar  with  his  kinsfolk  on  Mount  Parnassus. 
And  v/ith  such  an  air  had  hundreds  of  thousands  of 
English  boys  gone  out  on  a deadlier  venture  since 
the  great  war  began,  with  a like  Intensity  of  will,  a 
like  merry  scorn  of  fate. 

Sir  Henry  was  conscious  of  a lump  In  his  throat. 
He  had  lost  his  youngest  son  In  the  retreat  from 
Mons,  and  two  nephews  on  the  Somme. 

‘ It’s  wonderful,’  he  said,  not  very  clearly.  ‘I 
envy  you  such  a possession.’ 

The  Squire  made  no  reply.  He  sat  with  his  long 
body  hunched  up  in  the  deep  chair,  a pair  of  brood- 
ing eyes  fixed  on  his  visitor. 

‘ Well,  what  Is  it?  ’ he  said  again,  in  a voice  that 
was  barely  civil. 


CHAPTER  II 


SIR  HENRY  had  been  talking  some  time.  The 
Squire  had  not  interrupted  him  much,  but  the 
papers  which  Sir  Henry  had  presented  to  him 
from  time  to  time — Government  communications, 
Committee  reports,  and  the  like — were  mostly  lying 
on  the  floor,  where,  after  a perfunctory  glance  at 
them,  he  had  very  quickly  dropped  them. 

‘ Well,  that’s  our  case,’  said  Sir  Henry  at  last, 
thrusting  his  hands  into  his  pockets  and  leaning 
back  in  his  chair,  ‘ and  I assure  you  we’ve  taken  a 
great  deal  of  trouble  about  it.  We  shouldn’t  ask 
you  or  anybody  else  to  do  these  things  if  it  wasn’t 
vitally  necessary  for  the  food-supply  of  the  country. 
But  we’re  going  to  have  a narrow  squeak  for  it  next 
spring  and  summer,  and  we  must  get  more  food 
out  of  the  land.’ 

Whereupon,  in  a manner  rather  provokingly  remi- 
niscent of  a public  meeting.  Sir  Henry  fell  into  a dis- 
course on  submarines,  tonnage,  the  food  needs  of 
our  Allies,  and  the  absolute  necessity  for  undoing 
and  repairing  the  havoc  of  Cobdenism — matters  of 
which  the  newspapers  of  the  day  were  commonly 
full.  That  the  sound  of  his  own  voice  was  agreeable 
to  him  might  have  been  suspected. 

Mr.  Mannering  roughly  broke  In  upon  him. 

‘ What  was  that  you  said  about  ploughing  up  the 
park?  ’ 

‘ We  ask  you  to  break  up  fifty  acres  of  it  near  the 
Fallerton  end,  and  perhaps  some  other  bits  else- 

31 


22 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 


where.  This  first  bit  is  so  far  from  the  house  you’ll 
never  notice  it;  and  the  land  ought  to  do  very  well 
if  it’s  properly  broken  and  trampled  down.’ 

The  Squire  sat  up  and  began  to  tick  things  off  on 
the  fingers  of  his  left  hand. 

‘ Let  me  understand.  You  want  me  to  give  three 
of  my  farmers  notice  to  quit — Gregson  first  of  all — 
for  bad  farming;  you  ask  me  to  plough  up  fifty  acres 
of  my  park;  and  you  have  the  goodness  to  suggest 
that  I should  cut  some  of  my  woods.’ 

Sir  Henry  realized  that  possibly  a strain  on  his 
temper  was  coming,  but  he  felt  sure  he  could  stand  it. 

‘ That  is  what  we  suggest — for  your  own  advan- 
tage and  the  country’s.’ 

‘And  pray  who  are  “we”?  I don’t  yet  under- 
stand that  clearly.’ 

‘ “ We,”  ’ said  Sir  Henry  patiently,  ‘ are  the 
County  War  Agricultural  Committee,  formed  for 
the  express  purpose  of  getting  more  food  out  of 
the  land,  and  so  making  these  islands  self-support- 
ing.’ 

‘ And  if  I refuse,  v/hat  can  you  do?  ’ 

‘ Well,  I’m  afraid,’  said  Sir  Henry,  smiling  un- 
comfortably, ‘ we  can  act  without  you.’ 

‘ You  can  turn  out  my  farmers,  and  plough  my 
land,  as  you  please?’ 

‘ Our  powers  are  very  wide.’ 

‘ Under — what  do  you  call  the  beastly  thing? — 
“ Dora  ” — the  Defence  of  the  Realm  Act?’ 

Sir  Henry  nodded. 

The  Squire  rose  and  began  to  pace  up  and  down, 
his  hands  under  his  coat-tails,  his  long  spider  legs 
and  small  feet  picking  their  way  in  and  out  of  the 
piles  and  boxes  on  the  floor.  At  last  he  turned 
impetuously. 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 


23 

‘ Look  here,  Chicksands,  I shall  not  give  that 
man  warning!  ’ 

Sir  Henry  surveyed  the  lanky  figure  standing  op- 
posite to  him. 

‘ I should  be  very  sorry,  Mannering,  to  see  you 
take  that  course,’  he  said,  smiling  and  amiable  as 
before.  ‘ In  some  ways,  of  course,  I am  no  more  in 
love  with  some  of  the  Government’s  proceedings 
than  you  are.  We  landlords  may  have  to  defend 
ourselves.  I want,  if  I may  say  so,  to  keep  your 
influence  intact  for  the  things  that  really  matter. 
You  and  I,  and  all  the  other  Brookshire  landlords, 
may  have,  at  some  point,  to  act  together.  But  we 
shall  resist  unreasonable  demands  much  more  easily 
if  we  accept  the  reasonable  ones.’ 

The  Squire  shook  his  head.  The  suave  tone  of 
the  speaker  had  clearly  begun  to  rasp  his  nerves. 

‘No!  You  and  I have  really  nothing  in  com- 
mon. You  may  take  It  from  me  that  I shall  not  give 
these  men  notice.  What  happens  then?  ’ 

‘ The  Government  steps  in,’  said  Sir  Henry 
quietly. 

‘ And  turns  them  out?  Very  well,  let  them.  And 
the  park?  ’ 

‘ We  are,  of  course,  most  anxious  to  consult  you.’ 

‘ Excuse  me,  that’s  nonsense  I I refuse — that’s 
flat.’ 

Sir  Henry  shrugged  his  shoulders.  His  tone  be- 
came a trifle  colder. 

‘I  can’t  believe  that  you  will  refuse.  You  can’t 
deny — no  sensible  man  could — that  we’ve  simply  got 
to  grow  more  food  at  home.  The  submarines  have 
settled  that  for  us.’ 

‘Who  brought  the  submarines  upon  us?  The 
politicians!  No  politicians,  no  war!  If  it  hadn’t 


24 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 


been  for  a pack  of  idiots  called  diplomats  making 
mischief  abroad,  and  a pack  of  incompetents  called 
politicians  unable  to  keep  their  heads  at  home, 
there’d  have  been  no  war.  It’s  Russia’s  war — 
France’s  war  I Who  asked  the  country  whether  it 
wanted  a war?  Who  asked  me?’  The  Squire, 
standing  opposite  to  Sir  Henry,  tapped  his  chest 
vehemently. 

‘ The  country  is  behind  the  war,’  said  Chicksands 
firmly. 

‘ How  do  we  know?  How  do  you  know?  I’ve 
as  much  right  to  an  opinion  as  you,  and  I tell  you 
the  country  is  sick  and  tired  of  the  war.  We  are  all 
dying  of  the  war!  We  shall  all  be  paupers  because 
of  the  war!  What  is  France  to  me,  or  Belgium? 
We  shall  have  lost  men,  money,  security — half 
the  things  that  make  life  worth  living — for 
what?  ’ 

‘ Honour!  ’ said  Sir  Henry  sharply,  as  he  got  on 
his  feet. 

' Honour!  ’ sneered  Mannering — ‘ what’s  hon- 
our? It  means  one  thing  to  me  and  another  to  you. 
Aubrey  bangs  me  over  the  head  with  it.  But  I’m 
like  the  Doctor  in  the  Punch  and  Judy  show — he 
thinks  he’s  knocked  me  flat.  He  hasn’t.  I’ve  a new 
argument  every  time  he  comes.  And  as  for  my 
daughters,  they  think  me  a lunatic — a stingy  lunatic 
besides — because  I won’t  give  to  their  Red  Cross 
shows  and  bazaars.  I’ve  nothing  to  give.  The  in- 
come tax  gentlemen  have  taken  care  of  that.’ 

‘Yet  you  spend  on  this  kind  of  thing!’  Sir 
Henry  pointed  to  the  vases.  He  had  grown  a little 
white. 

‘ Of  course  I can.  That’s  permanent.  That’s 
something  to  mend  the  holes  that  the  soldiers  and 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 


25 

the  politicians  are  making.  When  the  war’s  be- 
come a nightmare  that  nobody  wants  to  remember, 
those  little  things  ’ — he  pointed  to  a group  of  Greek 
bronzes  and  terra-cottas  on  a table  near — ‘ will  still 
be  the  treasures  of  the  world!  ’ 

In  the  yeasty  deep  of  Sir  Henry’s  honest  mind 
emotions  were  rising  which  he  knew  now  he  should 
not  long  be  able  to  control.  He  took  up  his  hat  and 
stick. 

‘ I’m  sorry,  Mannering,  that  I have  not  been  able 
to  convince  you.  I’m  sorry  for  your  point  of  view — 
and  I’m  sorry  for  your  sons.’ 

The  words  slipped  out  of  his  mouth  before  he 
knew. 

The  Squire  bounded. 

‘ My  sons  1 The  one’s  a fire-eater,  with  whom  you 
can’t  argue.  The  other’s  a child — a babe — whom 
the  Government  proposes  to  murder  before  he  has 
begun  to  live.’ 

Sir  Henry  looked  at  the  speaker,  who  had  been 
violently  flushed  a minute  earlier,  and  was  now  as 
pale  as  himself,  and  then  at  the  sketch  of  Desmond, 
just  behind  the  Squire.  His  eyes  dropped;  the  hurry 
in  his  blood  subsided. 

‘ Well,  good-bye,  Mannering.  I’ll — I’ll  do  what 
I can  to  make  things  easy  for  you.’ 

The  Squire  laughed  angrily. 

‘You’ll  put  on  the  screws  politely?  Thank  you! 
But  still  it  will  be  you  who’ll  be  putting  the  screw 
on,  who’ll  be  turning  out  my  farmers,  and  ploughing 
up  my  land,  and  cutting  down  my  trees.  Doesn’t  it 
strike  you  that — well,  that — under  the  circumstances 
— It  will  be  rather  dlflicult  for  Aubrey  and  Beryl  to 
keep  up  their  engagement?  ’ 

The  Squire  was  sitting  on  <iie  edge  of  table, 


26 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 


his  thin  legs  crossed,  his  thumbs  in  his  waistcoat 
pockets.  Sir  Henry  coloured  hotly. 

‘ You  gave  your  consent  to  their  engagement, 
Mannering.’ 

‘ Yes,  but  I propose  to  withdraw  it,’  said  the 
Squire  coolly. 

Sir  Henry’s  indignation  kept  him  cool  also. 

‘ You  can’t  play  ducks  and  drakes  with  young 
people’s  lives  like  that.  Even  you  can’t  do  that.’ 

‘ I can.  I can  withdraw  my  consent.’ 

‘ Because  you  mean  to  fight  the  County  War  Com- 
mittee, of  which  I am  Chairman?’ 

‘ Precisely.  The  situation  is  too  difficult,’  said 
the  Squire  with  sparkling  eyes.  ‘ The  young  people 
will  no  doubt  see  it  for  themselves.’ 

‘ Pshaw ! Nonsense ! ’ cried  Sir  Henry,  finally 
losing  his  temper.  ‘ Aubrey  is  long  since  of  age  and 
his  own  master.’ 

‘ Perhaps,  but  he  is  an  extravagant  fellow,  who 
likes  money  and  spends  it.  And  if  he  is  his  own 
master,  I am  the  master  of  the  estate;  there  is  no 
entail.’ 

Chicksands  laughed  aloud. 

‘ So  because  I come  on  a mission  to  try  and  save 
you  friction  and  trouble,  you  are  going  to  avenge 
yourself  on  your  son  and  my  daughter?’ 

‘ I merely  point  out  the  properties,’  said  the 
Squire  provokingly,  his  legs  dangling. 

There  was  a pause.  Sir  Henry  broke  it  with  dig- 
nity, as  he  turned  away. 

‘ I think  we  had  better  break  off  this  discussion. 
I cannot — I do  not — believe  you  will  carry  out  what 
you  say.  But  if  you  do,  I shall  stand  by  the  young 
people.’ 

‘No  doubt!’  said  the  Squire,  who  seemed  to 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 


27 

bristle  from  head  to  foot.  ‘ Well,  good-bye,  Sir 
Henry.  Sorry  your  visit  has  not  been  more  agree- 
able. Forest  will  look  after  you.’  And  ringing  the 
bell  vehemently  as  he  pass'd  the  fireplace,  the 
Squire  walked  rapidly  to  the  door  and  threw  it  open. 

Chicksands  passed  through  it,  speechless  with  in- 
dignation and,  if  the  truth  were  told,  bewilderment. 

The  Squire  shut  the  door  upon  his  adversary,  and 
then,  with  his  hands  on  his  sides,  exploded  in  a fit 
of  laughter. 

‘ I always  knew  I must  be  rude  to  the  old  boy 
some  time,’  he  said,  with  the  glee  of  a mischievous 
child.  ‘ But,  ye  gods,  how  his  feathers  drooped ! 
He  looked  like  a plucked  cockatoo  as  he  went  out.’ 

He  stood  thinking  a moment,  and  then  with  a 
look  of  sudden  determination  he  went  to  his  writing- 
table  and  sat  down  to  it.  Drawing  a writing-pad 
towards  him,  he  wrote  as  follows: 

‘ My  dear  Aubrey — Your  future  father-in-law 
has  just  been  insulting  and  harrying  me  in  ways 
which  no  civilized  State  had  ever  heard  of  before 
the  war.  He  is  the  Chairman  of  a ridiculous  body 
that  calls  itself  the  County  War  Agricultural  Com- 
mittee, that  lays  absurd  eggs  in  the  shape  of  sub- 
committees to  vex  landlords.  They  have  been 
going  about  among  my  farmers  and  want  me  to  turn 
out  three  of  them.  I decline,  so  I suppose  they’ll 
do  it  for  me.  And  they’re  going  to  plough  up  a lot 
of  the  park — without  my  leave.  And  Chicksands  is 
the  head  and  front  of  the  whole  business.  He  came 
here  to-day  to  try  and  coax  me  into  submission.  But 
I would  neither  be  coaxed  nor  bullied.  I’ve  broken 
with  him;  and  if  my  children  stand  by  me  properly, 


28 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 


they’ll  break  with  him  too.  I really  don’t  see  how 
you’re  going  to  marry  Beryl  after  this.  At  least,  I 
shall  certainly  not  help  you  to  do  it,  and  if  you  defy 
me  you  must  take  the  consequences.  The  whole 
world’s  gone  mad.  My  only  consolation  is  that  I 
have  just  got  some  new  Greek  things,  and  that  Le- 
vasseur’s  helping  me  unpack  them.  However,  it’s 
no  good  talking  to  you  about  them.  You  wasted  all 
your  time  at  Cambridge,  and  I doubt  whether  you 
could  construe  a bit  of  Euripides  to  save  your  life. 

‘ Of  course  if  you  want  to  talk  this  over,  you  had 
better  run  down.  I have  got  a new  secretary — came 
here  six  weeks  ago — a topping  young  woman — who 
reads  Greek  like  a bird.  But  her  quantities  are  not 
always  what  they  should  be.  Good-bye. — Your 
affectionate  father, 

‘ Edmund  Mannering.’ 

Having  finished  the  epistle  he  read  it  over  with  a 
complacent  countenance,  put  it  up  and  stamped  it. 
Then  he  looked  at  his  watch. 

‘ What  a long  time  that  young  woman’s  been 
away!  I told  her  to  take  two  hours  off,  but  of 
course  I didn’t  mean  it.  That  was  just  my  exces- 
sive politeness.  D — mn  my  politeness.  It’s  always 
getting  in  my  way.  I forget  that  women  are  nat- 
urally lazy.  I daresay  she  was  a bit  fagged.  But 
if  she’s  interested  in  her  work,  what  does  that  mat- 
ter? I wonder  whether  she’s  looked  out  all  these 
references?’ 

And  walking  over  to  the  one  neat  table  in  the 
room  he  surveyed  it.  There  were  some  sheets  lying 
on  it  mostly  covered  with  an  excellent  Greek  script, 
which  he  turned  over.  Suddenly  he  swooped  on  one 
of  them. 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 


29 

‘Hullo!  That  line’s  wrong.  Won’t  scan. 
Trusted  to  her  memory,  I suppose.  Didn’t  look  it 
up.  And  yesterday  I caught  her  out  in  her  accents. 
Women  play  the  devil  with  accents.  But  she  writes 
a pretty  Greek.  Eh?  What?’  For  he  had  become 
aware  of  the  re-entry  of  Levasseur,  who  was  stand- 
ing at  his  elbow. 

‘ ’Fraid  I can’t  stay  now,’  said  that  person.  ‘ I’ve 
promised  to  pick  up  some  wounded  at  the  station 
to-night’ 

‘ You — wounded! — what  do  you  mean?  ’ said  the 
Squire,  turning  upon  him. 

Levasseur’s  large,  thin-lipped  mouth  showed 
what  seemed  an  habitual  grin. 

‘ I’d  been  getting  so  unpopular,  it  was  becoming 
a nuisance.  Line  of  least  resistance,  you  under- 
stand. Now  everybody’s  quite  civil  again.  And  I 
like  chauffing.’ 

‘ A mere  bit  of  weakness ! ’ grumbled  the  Squire. 
‘ Either  you  keep  out  of  the  war,  or  you  go  into  it. 
You’d  better  go  off  to  a camp  now,  and  get  trained 
--^and  shot — as  quicklv  as  possible — get  done  with 
if.’ 

‘ Oh  no,’  laughed  the  other.  ‘ I’m  all  for  middle 
courses.  If  they’ll  let  me  go  on  with  my  book,  I 
don’t  mind  driving  a few  poor  fellows  now  and 
then ! ’ 

The  Squire  looked  at  him  critically. 

‘ The  fact  is  you’re  too  well  fed,  Levasseur,  or 
you  look  it.  That  annoys  people.  Now  I might 
gorge  for  a month,  and  shouldn’t  put  on  a pound.’ 

‘ I suppose  your  household  is  rationed?  ’ 

‘Not  it!  We  eat  what  we  want.  Just  like  the 
labourers.  I found  an  old  labourer  eating  his  din- 
ner under  a hedge  yesterday.  Half  a pound  of 


30 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 


bread  at  the  very  least,  and  he  gets  as  much  for  his 
supper,  and  nearly  as  much  for  his  breakfast.  “ I 
shall  eat  it.  Squire,  as  long  as  I can  get  it.  There’s 
nowt  else  packs  ye  like  bread.”  And  quite  right 
too.  Good  word  “ pack.”  ’ 

‘What’ll  he  do  when  he  can’t  get  It?’  laughed 
Levasseur,  taking  up  his  hat. 

‘ Stuff ! This  food  business  is  all  one  big  blague. 
Anyway  the  Government  got  us  into  the  war;  they’re 
jolly  well  bound  to  feed  us  through  it.  They  will, 
for  their  own  necks’  sake.  Well,  good-night.’ 

Levasseur  nodded  in  response,  with  the  same 
silent,  aimless  grin,  and  disappeared  through  the 
garden  door  of  the  library. 

‘ Queer  fellow ! ’ thought  the  Squire.  ‘ But  he’s 
useful.  I shall  get  him  to  help  catalogue  these  things 
as  he  did  the  others.  Ah,  there  you  are!  ’ 

Lie  turned  with  a reproachful  air  as  the  door 
opened. 

The  westerly  sun  was  cominp'  strongly  into  the 
library,  and  shone  full  on  the  face  and  figure  of  the 
Squire’s  new  secretary  as  she  stood  In  the  door- 
way. He  expected  an  apology  for  an  absence  just 
five  minutes  over  the  two  hours;  but  she  offered 
none. 

‘ Pamela  asked  me  to  tell  you,  Mr.  Mannering, 
that  tea  was  ready  under  the  verandah.’ 

‘ Afternoon  tea  Is  an  abominable  waste  of  time ! ’ 
said  the  Squire  discontentedly,  facing  her  with  a 
Greek  pot  under  each  arm. 

‘ Do  you  think  so  ? To  me  It’s  always  the  pleasant- 
est meal  in  the  day.’ 

The  voice  was  musical  and  attractive,  but  Its 
complete  self-possession  produced  a vague  irrita- 
tion In  the  Squire.  With  his  two  former  secretaries, 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 


31 


a Cambridge  man  and  a spectacled  maiden  with  a 
London  University  degree,  he  had  been  accustomed 
to  play  the  tyrant  as  must  as  he  pleased.  Something 
had  told  him  from  the  very  beginning  that  he  would 
not  be  able  to  tyrannize  over  this  newcomer. 

But  his  quick  masterful  temper  was  already  try- 
ing to  devise  ways  of  putting  her  down.  He  beck- 
oned her  towards  the  table  where  she  had  left  her 
work,  and  she  went  obediently. 

‘ You’ve  got  that  line  wrong.  He  pointed  to  a 
quotation  from  the  Odyssey.  ‘ Read  it,  please ! ’ 

She  read  it.  He  stopped  her  triumphantly. 

‘ No,  no,  you  can’t  make  that  long!  ’ He  pointed 
to  one  of  the  Greek  words. 

Her  fair  skin  flushed. 

‘ But  indeed  you  can  I ’ she  said  eagerly.  ‘ Merry 
quotes  three  parallel  passages.  I have  them  in  one 
of  my  notebooks.’  And  she  began  to  search  her 
table.  Mannering  stopped  her  ungraciously. 

‘ Of  course  there’s  always  some  learned  fool  be- 
hind every  bad  reading.  Anyway,  what  do  you  say 
to  those  accents?’  He  pointed  severely  to  another 
line  of  her  Greek.  This  time  Miss  Bremerton’s 
countenance  changed, 

‘ Oh  dear,  what  a blunder ! ’ she  said  in  distress, 
as  she  bent  over  her  pages.  ‘ I assure  you  I don’t 
often  do  anything  as  bad  as  that.’ 

Mannering  was  secretly  delighted.  His  manner 
became  at  once  all  politeness. 

‘ Don’t  worry  yourself,  please.  We  all  make  mis- 
takes. . . . You  have  a beautiful  Greek  hand- 
writing.’ 

Miss  Bremerton  took  the  compliment  calmly- — 
did  not  indeed  seem  to  hear  it.  She  was  already 
scratching  out  the  offending  words  with  a sharp 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 


penknife,  and  daintily  rewriting  them.  Then  she 
looked  up. 

‘ Pamela  asked  me  to  go  back  to  her.  And  I was 
to  say,  will  you  come,  or  shall  she  send  tea 
Eere  ? ’ 

‘ Oh,  I’ll  come.  I’ll  come.  I’ve  got  something  to 
say  to  Pamela,’  said  the  Squire,  frowning.  And  he 
stalked  in  front  of  her  along  the  library  passage,  his 
brilliant  white  hair  gleaming  in  its  shadows.  It  was 
well  perhaps  that  he  did  not  see  the  amusement 
which  played  round  Elizabeth  Bremerton’s  hand- 
some mouth  as  she  pursued  him. 

Tea  was  laid  on  a flagged  walk  under  a glazed 
pergola  running  along  part  of  the  southern  wall  of 
the  house.  Here  Pamela  was  sitting  waiting,  with  a 
basket  of  knitting  on  her  knee  which  she  put  out  of 
sight  as  soon  as  she  heard  her  father’s  step.  She 
had  taken  off  her  hat,  and  her  plentiful  brown  hair 
was  drawn  in  a soft  wave  across  her  forehead,  and 
thickly  coiled  behind  a shapely  head.  She  was  very 
young,  and  very  pretty.  Perhaps  the  impression  of 
youth  predominated,  youth  uncertain  of  itself,  con- 
scious rather  of  its  own  richness  and  force  than  of 
any  definite  aims  or  desires.  Her  expression  was  ex- 
tremely reserved.  A veil  seemed  to  lie  over  her 
deep,  heavy-lidded  eyes,  and  over  features  that  had 
now  delicacy  and  bloom,  but  promised  much  more — 
something  far  beyond  any  mere  girlish  prettiness. 
She  was  tall  and  finely  made,  and  for  the  school 
tableaux  in  which  she  had  frequently  helped  she  had 
been  generally  cast  for  such  parts  as  ‘ Nausicaa 
among  her  maidens,’  ‘ Athene  lighting  the  way  for 
Odysseus  and  Telemachus,’  ‘ Dante’s  Beatrice,’  or 
any  other  personage  requiring  dignity,  even  a touch 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 


33 


of  majesty.  Flowing  skirts,  indeed,  at  once  made 
a queen  of  her.  It  was  evident  that  she  was  not  at 
her  ease  with  her  father;  nor,  as  yet,  with  her 
father’s  new  secretary. 

The  contrast  between  this  lady  and  Pamela  Man- 
nering  was  obvious  at  once.  If  Pamela  suggested 
romance,  Elizabeth  Bremerton  suggested  efficiency, 
cheerfulness,  and  the  practical  life.  Her  grand- 
mother had  been  Dutch,  and  in  Elizabeth  the  fair 
skin  and  yellow-gold  hair  (Rembrandt’s  ‘ Saskia  ’ 
shows  the  type)  of  many  Dutch  forebears  had  re- 
appeared. She  was  a trifle  plump;  her  hair  curled 
prettily  round  her  temples;  her  firm  dimpled  chin 
and  the  fair  complexion  of  her  face  and  neck  were 
set  off,  evidently  with  intention,  by  the  plain  blouse 
of  black  silky  stuff,  open  at  the  neck,  and  showing 
a modest  string  of  small  but  real  pearls.  The 
Squire,  who  had  a wide  knowledge  of  jewels,  had 
noticed  these  pearls  at  once.  It  seemed  to  him — 
vaguely — that  lady  secretaries  should  not  possess 
real  pearls;  or  if  they  did  possess  them,  should  care- 
fully keep  them  to  themselves. 

He  accepted  a cup  of  tea  from  his  daughter,  and 
drank  it  absently  before  he  asked : 

‘ Where’s  Desmond?  ’ 

‘ He  went  to  lunch  at  Fallerton — at  the  camp. 
Captain  Byles  asked  him.  I think  afterwards  he  was 
going  to  play  in  a match.’ 

The  same  thought  passed  through  the  minds  of 
both  father  and  daughter.  ‘ This  day  week,  Des- 
mond will  be  gone.’  In  Pamela  it  brought  back  the 
dull  pain  of  which  she  was  now  habitually  conscious 
— the  pain  of  expected  parting.  In  her  father  it 
aroused  an  equally  habitual  antagonism — the  temper, 
indeed,  of  ironic  exasperation  in  which  all  his  think- 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 


34 

ing  and  doing  were  at  the  moment  steeped.  He 
looked  up  suddenly. 

‘ Pamela,  I have  got  something  disagreeable  to 
say  to  you.’ 

His  daughter  turned  a startled  face. 

‘ I have  had  a quarrel  with  Sir  Henry  Chick- 
sands,  and  I do  not  wish  you,  or  Desmond,  or  any  of 
my  children,  to  have  any  communication  henceforth 
with  him,  or  with  any  of  his  family!  ’ 

‘Father,  what  do  you  mean?’ 

The  girl’s  incredulous  dismay  only  increased  the 
Squire’s  irritation. 

‘ I mean  what  I say.  Of  course  your  married 
sisters  and  Aubrey  will  do  what  they  please,  though 
I have  warned  Aubrey  how  I shall  view  it  if  he 
takes  sides  against  me.  But  you  and  Desmond  are 
under  my  control — you,  at  any  rate.  I forbid  you 
to  go  to  Chetworth,  and  your  friendship  with  Beryl 
must  be  given  up.’ 

‘Father!’  cried  his  daughter  passionately,  ‘she 
is  my  best  friend,  and  she  is  engaged  to  Aubrey.’ 

‘ If  they  are  wise,  they  will  break  it  off.  Family 
quarrels  are  awkward  things.  And  if  Aubrey  has 
any  feeling  for  his  father,  he  will  be  as  angry  as  I 
am.’ 

‘ What  has  Sir  Henry  been  doing,  father?’ 

‘Taking  my  own  property  out  of  my  hands,  my 
dear,  giving  notice  to  my  farmers,  and  proposing 
to  plough  up  my  park,  without  my  consent. 
That’s  all — just  a trifle.  But  it’s  a trifle  I shall 
fight ! ’ 

The  Squire  struck  the  arm  of  his  chair  with  a long 
and  bony  hand. 

‘ Why,  it’s  only  because  they  must!  ’ said  the  girl 
half  scornfully,  her  breath  fluttering.  ‘ Think  what 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 


35 

other  people  put  up  with,  father.  And  what  they 
do ! And  we  do  nothing!  * 

Every  word  was  said  with  difficulty,  torn  out  of 
her  by  the  shock  of  her  father’s  statement.  The 
Squire  stared  at  her  threateningly  a little,  then 
quieted  down.  He  did  not  want  a wrangle  with 
Pamela,  to  whom  in  general  he  was  not  unkind, 
while  keeping  a strict  rule  over  her. 

‘Do  nothing?  What  should  we  do?  As  if  the 
war  did  not  bleed  us  at  every  turn  already.  I warn 
you  all  I shan’t  be  able  to  pay  the  income  tax  next 
year.  Mannering  will  be  sold  up.’  And  thrusting 
his  hands  again  into  his  pockets,  he  looked  gloomily 
before  him,  over  a piece  of  ill-kept  garden,  to  the 
sloping  park  and  blue  interlacing  hills  that  filled 
the  distance. 

Elizabeth  Bremerton  put  down  her  teacup, 
glanced  at  the  father  and  daughter,  and  went  dis- 
creetly away,  back  to  the  library  and  her  work. 

Pamela  hesitated  a little,  but  at  last  moved  nearer 
to  him,  and  put  a hand  on  his  arm. 

‘Father!  I dreadfully  want  you  to  let  me  do 
something!  ’ 

‘Eh,  what?’  said  Mannering,  rousing  himself. 
‘ Don’t  try  and  coax  me,  child.  It  doesn’t  answer.’ 

‘ I don’t  want  to  coax  you,’  said  the  girl  proudly 
withdrawing  her  hand.  ‘ It’s  a very  simple  thing. 
Will  you  let  me  go  and  do  day  work  at  the  new 
Hospital,  just  across  the  park?  They  want  some 
help  in  the  housework.  There  are  fifty  wounded 
men  there.’ 

‘ Certainly  not,’  said  Mannering  firmly.  ‘ You  are 
too  young.  You  have  your  education  to  think  of. 
I told  you  I engaged  Miss  Bremerton  to  give  you 
two  hours’  classics  a day.  When  we’ve  arranged 


36  ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 

these  pots,  she’ll  be  free.  You  must  also  keep  up 
your  music.  You  have  no  time  for  housemaiding. 
And  I don’t  approve  of  housemaiding  for  my 
daughter.’ 

‘ The  nicest  girls  I know  are  doing  anything — 
scrubbing,  washing  up,  polishing  bath-taps,  making 
swabs,  covering  splints,’  said  Pamela  in  a low  voice. 
I There  are  two  of  the  Joyce  girls  at  this  hospital, 
just  _my  age.  Of  course  they  don’t  let  you  do  any 
nursing — for  months.’ 

_ ‘ Lord  Entwhistle  may  do  what  he  likes  with  his 
girls.  I propose  to  do  what  I think  best  with  mine,’ 
said  Mannering  as  he  rose. 

Then  the  girl’s  passion  broke  out. 

‘ It’s  horrible,  father,  that  you  won’t  do  anything 
for  the  war,  or  let  me  do  anything.  Oh,  I’m  glad  ’ 
— she  clenched  her  hands  as  she  stood  opposite  him, 
her  beautiful  head  thrown  back — ‘ I’m  thankful, 
that  you  can’t  stop  Desmond!  ’ 

Mannering  looked  at  her,  frowned,  turned 
abruptly,  and  went  away  whistling. 

Pamela  was  left  alone  in  the  September  evening. 
She  betook  herself  to  an  old  grass-grown  walk  be- 
tween yew  hedges  at  the  bottom  of  the  Dutch  gar- 
den, and  paced  it  in  a tumult  of  revolt  and  pain. 
Not  to  go  to  Chetworth  again!  not  to  see  Beryl,  or 
any  of  them ! How  cruel ! how  monstrously  unjust ! 

‘I  shan’t  obey! — why  should  I?  Beryl  and  I 
must  manage  to  see  each  other — of  course  we  shall! 
Girls  aren’t  the  slaves  they  used  to  be.  If  a thing  is 
unjust,  we  can  fight  it — we  ought  to  fight  it ! — some- 
how. Poor,  poor  Beryl!  Of  course  Aubrey  will 
stick  to  her,  whatever  father  does.  He  would  be 
a cur  if  he  didn’t.  Desmond  and  I would  never 
speak  to  him  again ! . . . Beryl  ’ll  have  Arthur  to 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 


37 

help  her,  directly.  Oh,  I wish  I had  a brother  like 
Arthur ! ’ Her  face  softened  and  quivered  as  she 
stood  still  a moment,  sending  her  ardent  look  to- 
wards the  sunset.  ‘ I think  I shall  ask  him  to  advise 
me.  ...  I don’t  suppose  he  will.  . . . How 
provoking  he  used  to  be ! but  awfully  kind  too.  He’ll 
think  I ought  to  do  what  father  tells  me.  How  can 
I ! It’s  wrong — it’s  abominable ! Everybody  de- 
spises us.  And  Desmond’s  dying  to  be  off — to  get 
away  from  it  all — like  Aubrey.  He  hates  it  so — he 
almost  hates  coming  home ! It’s  humiliating , and 
it’s  not  our  fault ! ’ 

Such  cries  and  thoughts  ran  through  her  as  she 
walked  impetuously  up  and  down,  in  rebellion 
against  her  father,  unhappy  for  her  girl  friend,  and 
smarting  under  the  coercion  put  upon  her  patriotism 
and  her  conscience.  For  she  had  only  two  months 
before  left  a school  where  the  influence  of  a remark- 
able head-mistress  had  been  directed  towards  awak- 
ening in  a group  of  elder  girls,  to  which  Pamela 
belonged,  a vivid  consciousness  of  the  perils,  and 
sufferings  of  the  war — of  the  sacredness  of  the  cause 
for  which  England  was  fighting,  of  the  glory  of 
England,  and  the  joy  and  privilege  of  English 
citizenship.  In  these  young  creatures  the  elder 
woman  had  kindled  a flame  of  feeling  which,  when 
they  parted  from  her  and  their  school  life — so  she 
told  them — was  to  take  practical  effect  in  work  for 
their  country,  given  with  a proud  and  glad  devo- 
tion. 

But  Pamela,  leaving  school  at  the  end  of  July  for 
the  last  time,  after  a surfeit  of  examinations,  had 
been  pronounced  ‘ tired  out  ’ by  an  old  aunt,  a cer- 
tain Lady  Cassiobury,  who  came  for  long  periodical 
visits  to  Mannering,  and  made  a show  of  looking 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 


38 

after  her  motherless  niece.  Accordingly  she  had 
been  packed  off  to  Scotland  for  August  to  stay  with 
a school  friend,  one  of  a large  family  in  a large 
country  house  in  the  Highlands.  And  there,  roam- 
ing amid  lochs  and  heather,  with  a band  of  young 
people,  the  majority  of  the  men,  of  course,  in  the 
Army — young  officers  on  short  leave,  or  temporarily 
invalided,  or  boys  of  eighteen  just  starting  their 
cadet  training — she  had  spent  a month  full  of  emo- 
tions, not  often  expressed.  For  generally  she  was 
shy  and  rather  speechless,  though  none  the  less  liked 
by  her  companions  for  that.  But  many  things  sank 
deep  with  her;  the  beauty  of  mountain  and  stream; 
the  character  of  some  of  the  boys  she  walked  and 
fished  with — unnoticed  sub-lieutenants,  who  had 
come  home  to  get  cured  of  one  wound,  and  were 
going  out  again  to  the  immediate  chance  of  another, 
or  worse;  the  tales  of  heroism  and  death  of  which 
the  Scotch  countryside  was  full.  Her  own  mood  was 
tuned  thereby  to  an  ever  higher  and  more  tragic  key. 
Nobody  indeed  of  the  party  was  the  least  tragic. 
Evervbody  walked,  fished,  flirted,  and  laughed  from 
morning  till  night.  Yet  every  newspaper,  every 
post,  brought  news  of  some  death  that  affected  one 
or  other  of  the  large  group;  and  amid  all  the  sheer 
physical  joy  of  the  long  days  in  the  open,  bathed 
in  sun  and  wind,  there  was  a sense  in  all  of  them — 
or  almost  all  of  them — that  no  summer  now  is  as 
the  summers  of  the  past,  that  behind  and  around  the 
laughter  and  the  picnicking  there  lay  the  Shadow 
that  darkens  the  world. 

One  gorgeous  evening  of  gold  and  purple  she  v/as 
sitting  by  a highland  stream  with  a lad  of  twenty, 
throwing  ducks  and  drakes  into  the  water.  She  was 
not  at  all  in  love  with  him;  but,  immature  as  she 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 


39 


was,  she  could  not  help  seeing  that  he  v/as  a good 
deal  in  love  with  her.  He  had  been  in  uproari- 
ous spirits  all  the  afternoon,  and  then  somehow 
he  had  contrived  to  find  this  moment  alone  with 
her. 

‘ Well,  it’ll  be  good-bye  to-morrow,  or  perhaps 
to-night,’  he  had  said,  as  he  flung  yet  another  stone 
into  the  river,  and  she  clapped  her  hands  as  she 
counted  no  less  than  six  skips  along  the  smooth 
water. 

‘ And  then  no  leave  for  a long  time  ? ’ 

‘ Well,  I’d  been  ten  months  without  any  before.’ 

‘ Perhaps  we’ll  meet  here  again — next  year.’ 

‘ I don’t  expect  it,’  he  said  quietly. 

Her  startled  eyes  met  his  full. 

‘ It’ll  be  worse  fighting  this  winter  than  last — it’ll 
go  on  getting  worse  till  the  end.  I don’t  look  to 
coming  back.’ 

His  tone  was  so  cheerful  and  matter-of-fact  that 
it  confused  her. 

‘ Oh,  Basil,  don’t  talk  like  that ! ’ was  all  she  could 
find  to  say. 

‘Why  not?  Of  course  it’s  better  not  to  talk 
about  it.  Nobody  does.  But  just  this  afternoon — 
when  it’s  been  so  jolly — here  with  you,  I thought 
I’d  like  to  say  a word.  Perhaps  you’ll  remem- 
ber  ’ 

He  threw  another  stone,  and  on  the  moor  beyond 
the  stream  she  heard  the  grouse  calling. 

‘ Remember  what?  ’ 

‘ That  I was  quite  willing,’  he  said  simply.  ‘ That’s 
all.  It’s  worth  it.’ 

She  could  say  nothing,  but  presently  her  hand 
dropped  its  pebble  and  found  its  way  into  his,  and  he 
had  held  it  without  saying  a word  for  a little  while. 


40 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 


Then  after  dinner,  with  no  good-bye  to  her,  he  had 
disappeared  by  the  night  train  to  the  south. 

And  that  had  been  the  spirit  of  all  of  them,  those 
jolly,  rampagious  lads,  plain  or  handsome,  clever  or 
slow.  Two  of  them  were  dead  already.  But  the 
one  who  had  thrown  ducks  and  drakes  was  still,  so 
far  as  she  knew,  somewhere  in  the  Ypres  salient, 
unscathed. 

And  after  that  she  had  come  home  to  the  atmos- 
phere created  by  her  father’s  life  and  character,  in 
this  old  house  where  she  was  born,  and  in  the  estate 
round  about  it.  It  was  as  though  she  had  only  just 
realized — begun  to  realize — her  father’s  strange- 
ness. His  eccentricities  and  unpopularity  had  meant 
little  to  her  before.  Her  own  real  interests  had  lain 
elsewhere;  and  her  mind  had  been  too  slow  in  de- 
veloping to  let  her  appreciate  his  fundamental  dif- 
ference from  other  people. 

At  any  rate  her  father’s  unpopularity  had  been 
lately  acute,  and  Pamela  herself  felt  it  bitterly,  and 
shrank  from  her  neighbours  and  the  cottage  people. 
When  Desmond  came  home  with  a D.S.O.,  or  a 
Victoria  Cross,  as  of  course  he  would,  she  supposed 
it  would  be  all  right.  But  meanwhile  not  a single 
thing  done  for  the  war ! — not  a sou  to  the  Red 
Cross,  or  to  any  war  funds!  And  hundreds  spent 
on  antiquities — thousands  perhaps — getting  them 
deeper  and  deeper  into  debt.  For  she  was  quite 
aware  that  they  were  in  debt;  and  her  own  allow- 
ance was  of  the  smallest.  Two  hundred  and  fifty  a 
year,  too,  for  Miss  Bremerton! — when  they  could 
barely  afford  to  keep  up  the  garden  decently,  or  re- 
pair the  house.  She  knew  it  was  two  hundred  and 
fifty  pounds.  Her  father  was  never  reticent  about 
such  things,  and  had  named  the  figure  at  once. 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 


41 


‘ Why  wasn’t  Miss  Bremerton  doing  something 
for  the  war?  Greek  indeed!  when  there  was  this 
fearful  thing  going  on ! ’ And  in  the  evening  air, 
as  the  girl  turned  her  face  towards  the  moonrise,  she 
seemed  to  hear  the  booming  of  the  Flanders 
guns. 

And  now  Miss  Bremerton  was  to  do  the  house- 
keeping, and  to  play  tutor  and  chaperon  to  her. 
Pamela  resented  both.  If  she  was  not  to  be  allowed 
to  scrub  in  a hospital,  she  might  at  least  have  learnt 
some  housekeeping  at  home,  for  future  use.  As  for 
the  Greek  lessons,  it  was  not  easy  for  her  to  be 
positively  rude  to  any  one,  but  she  promised  herself 
a good  deal  of  passive  resistance  on  that  side.  For 
if  nothing  else  was  possible,  she  could  always  sew 
and  knit  for  the  soldiers.  Pamela  was  not  very  good 
at  either,  but  they  did  something  to  lessen  the  moral 
thirst  in  her. 

Ah,  there  was  the  library  door.  Miss  Bremerton 
coming  out — perhaps  to  propose  a lesson!  Pamela 
took  to  flight — noiseless  and  rapid — among  the 
bosky  corners  and  walks  of  the  old  garden. 

Elizabeth  emerged,  clearly  perceiving  a gleam  of 
vanishing  white  in  the  far  distance.  She  sighed,  but 
not  at  all  sentimentally.  ‘ It’s  silly  how  she  dislikes 
me,’  she  thought.  ‘ I wonder  what  I can  do ! ’ 

Then  her  eye  was  caught  by  the  tea-table  still 
standing  out  in  the  golden  dusk,  which  had  now 
turned  damp  and  chilly.  Careless  of  Pamela  not 
to  have  sent  it  away!  Elizabeth  examined  it.  Far 
too  many  cakes — too  much  sugar,  too  much  butter, 
too  much  everything!  And  all  because  the  Squire, 
who  seemed  to  have  as  great  a need  of  economy  as 
anybody  else,  if  not  more,  to  judge  from  what  she 
was  beginning  to  know  about  his  affairs,  was  deter- 


42 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 


mined  to  flout  the  Food  Controller,  and  public  opin- 
ion! What  about  the  servants?  she  wondered. 

Perceiving  a little  silver  bell  on  the  table  she 
rang  it  and  waited.  Within  a couple  of  minutes 
Forest  emerged  from  the  house.  Elizabeth  hesi- 
tated, then  plunged. 

‘ Take  away  the  tea,  please.  Forest.  And — and 
I should  like  to  consult  you.  Do  you  think  any- 
body wants  as  much  tea  and  cakes  in  war-time?’ 
She  pointed  to  the  table. 

Forest  paused  as  he  was  lifting  the  silver  tray, 
and  put  it  down  again.  He  looked  at  the  table ; then 
he  looked  at  the  lady  opposite. 

‘ We  servants.  Miss,  have  never  been  asked  what 
‘voe  think.  Mr.  Mannering — that’s  not  his  way.’ 

‘ But  I may  ask  it,  mayn’t  I,  Forest?’ 

Forest’s  intelligent  face  flamed. 

‘ Well,  If  we’ve  really  to  speak  out  what  we  think. 
Miss — that’s  Cook  and  me — why,  of  course,  the 
feeding  here — well.  It’s  a scandal!  that’s  what  It  Is. 
The  Master  will  have  it.  No  change,  he  says,  from 
what  it  used  to  be.  And  the  waste — well,  you  ask 
Cook!  She  can’t  help  it!  ’ 

‘Has  she  been  here  long,  Forest?’ 

‘ Fifteen  years.’ 

‘ And  you  ? ’ 

‘ Twenty-two,  Mlssd 

‘ Well,  Forest,’  Miss  Bremerton  approached  him 
confidingly,  ‘ don’t  you  think  that  you,  and  Cook, 
and  I — you  know  Mr.  Mannering  wishes  me  to  do 
the  housekeeping — well,  that  between  us  we  could  do 
something?  ’ 

Forest  considered  it. 

‘ I don’t  see  why  not.  Miss,’  he  said  at  last,  with 
caution.  ‘ You  can  reckon  on  me,  that’s  certain,  and 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 


43 

on  Cook,  that’s  certain  too.  As  for  the  young  uns, 
we  can  get  round  them!  They’ll  eat  what  they’re 
given.  But  you’ll  have  to  go  careful  with  the 
Squire.’ 

Miss  Bremerton  smiled  and  nodded.  They  stood 
colloguing  in  the  twilight  for  ten  minutes  more. 


CHAPTER  III 


‘T  SAY,  Pamela,  who  is  this  female,  and  why  has 
^ she  descended  on  us?  ’ 

The  speaker  was  Desmond  Mannering.  He 
was  sitting  on  the  edge  of  a much  dilapidated  arm- 
chair in  the  room  which  had  been  the  twins’  “ den  ” 
from  their  childhood,  in  which  Pamela’s  governess 
even,  before  the  girl’s  school  years,  was  allowed 
only  on  occasional  and  precarious  footing.  Here 
Pamela  dabbed  in  photography,  made  triumphant 
piles  of  the  socks  and  mittens  she  kept  from  her 
father’s  eye,  read  history,  novels,  and  poetry,  and 
wrote  to  her  school  friends  and  the  boys  she  had 
met  in  Scotland.  Ranged  along  the  mantelpiece  were 
numbers  of  snapshots — groups  and  single  figures — 
taken  by  her,  with  results  that  showed  her  no  great 
performer. 

At  the  moment,  however,  Pamela  was  engaged  in 
marking  Desmond’s  socks.  She  was  very  jealous  of 
her  sisterly  prerogative  in  the  matter  of  Desmond’s 
kit,  and  personal  affairs  generally.  Forest  was  the 
only  person  she  would  allow  to  advise  her,  and  one 
or  two  innocent  suggestions  made  that  morning  by 
her  new  chaperon  had  produced  a good  deal  of 
irritation. 

Pamela  looked  up  with  a flushed  countenance. 

‘ I believe  father  did  it  specially  that  he  might  be 
able  to  tell  Alice  and  Margaret  that  he  hadn’t  a 
farthing  for  their  war  charities.’ 

‘ You  mean  because  she  costs  so  much?  ’ 


44 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 


45 


‘ Two  hundred  and  fifty,’  said  Pamela  drily. 

‘My  hat! — and  her  keep!  I call  that  mean  of 
father,’  said  Desmond  indignantly.  ‘ You  can’t  go 
tick  with  a secretary.  It  means  cash.  There’ll  never 
be  anything  for  you,  Pam,  and  nothing  for  the 
garden.  The  two  old  fellows  that  were  here 
last  week  have  been  turned  off.  Forest  tells 
me?  ’ 

‘ Father  expects  me  to  do  the  garden,’  said  Pam- 
ela, with  rather  pinched  lips. 

‘ Well,  jolly  good  thing,’  laughed  her  brother. 
‘ Do  you  a lot  of  good,  Pam.  You  never  get  half 
enough  exercise.’ 

‘ I wouldn’t  mind  if  I were  paid  wages  and  could 
spend  the  money  as  I liked.’ 

‘ Poor  old  Pam!  It  is  hard  lines.  I heard  father 
tell  the  Rector  he’d  spent  eighteen  hundred  at  that 
sale.’ 

‘ And  I’m  ashamed  to  face  any  of  the  trades- 
men,’ said  Pamela  fiercely.  ‘ Why  they  go  on  trust- 
ing us  I don’t  know.’ 

Desmond  looked  out  of  the  window  with  a puck- 
ered brow — a slim  figure  in  his  cadet’s  uniform.  To 
judge  from  a picture  on  the  wall  behind  his  head, 
an  enlarged  photograph  of  the  late  Mrs.  Manner- 
ing  taken  a year  before  tl.e  birth  of  the  twins — 
an  event  which  had  cost  fhe  mother  her  life — 
Desmond  resembled  her  rather  than  his  father.  In 
both  faces  there  was  the  same  smiling  youthfulness, 
combined — as  indeed  also  in  Pamela — with  some- 
thing that  entirely  banished  any  suggestion  of  in- 
sipidity— something  that  seemed  to  say,  ‘ There  is 
a soul  here — and  a brain.’  It  had  sometimes 
occurred,  in  a dreamy  way  to  Pamela,  to  connect 
that  smile  on  her  mother’s  face  with  a line  in  a 


46  ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 

poem  of  Browning’s,  which  she  had  learnt  for  reci- 
tation at  school : 

This  grew;  I gave  commands; 

Then  all  smiles  stopped  together. 

Had  her  mother  been  happy?  That  her  children 
could  never  Icnow. 

Desmond’s  countenance,  however,  soon  cleared. 
It  was  impossible  for  him  to  frown  for  long  on  any 
subject.  He  was  very  sorry  for  ‘ old  Pam.’  His 
father’s  opinions  and  behaviour  were  too  queer  for 
words.  He  would  be  jolly  worried  if  he  had  to  stay 
long  at  home,  like  Pamela.  But  then  he  wasn’t 
going  to  be  long  at  home.  He  was  going  off  to  his 
artillery  camp  in  two  days,  and  the  thought  filled 
him  with  a restless  and  impatient  delight.  At  the 
same  time  he  was  more  tolerant  of  his  father  than 
Pamela  was,  though  he  could  not  have  told  why. 

‘ Desmond,  give  me  your  foot,’  Pamela  presently 
commanded. 

The  boy  bared  his  foot  obediently,  and  held  it  out 
while  Pamela  tried  on  a sock  she  had  just  finished 
knitting  on  a new  pattern. 

‘ I’m  not  very  good  at  it,’  sighed  Pamela.  ‘ Are 
you  sure  you  can  wear  them,  Dezzy?  ’ 

‘ V/ear  them?  Ripping!  ’ said  the  boy,  surveying 
his  foot  at  different  angles.  ‘ But  you  know,  Pam, 
I can’t  take  half  the  things  you  want  me  to  take. 
What  on  earth  did  you  get  me  a Gieve  waistcoat 
for  ? ’ 

‘ How  do  you  know  you  won’t  be  going  to  Meso- 
potamia ? ’ 

‘Well,  I don’t  know;  but  I don’t  somehow  think 
it’s  very  likely.  They  get  their  drafts  from  Egypt, 
and  there’s  lots  of  artillery  there.’ 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 


47 

Pamela  remembered  with  annoyance  that  Miss 
Bremerton  had  gently  hinted  the  same  thing  when 
the  Gieve  waistcoat  had  been  unpacked  in  her  pres- 
ence. It  was  true,  of  course,  that  she  had  a brother 
fighting  under  General  Maude.  That,  no  doubt, 
did  give  her  a modest  right  to  speak. 

‘ How  old  do  you  think  she  is  ? ’ said  Desmond, 
nodding  in  the  direction  of  the  library. 

‘ Well,  she’s  over  thirty.’ 

‘ She  doesn’t  look  it.’ 

‘ Oh,  Desmond,  she  does  I ’ 

‘ Let’s  call  her  the  New  Broom — Broomie  for 
short,’  said  Desmond.  ‘ Look  here,  Pam,  I wish 
you’d  try  and  like  her.  I shall  have  a dreadful 
hump  when  I get  to  camp  if  I think  she’s  going  to 
make  you  miserable.’ 

‘ Oh,  I’ll  try,’  said  the  girl  with  dreary  resigna- 
tion. ‘You  know  I’m  not  to  see  Beryl  again?’ 
She  looked  up. 

Her  brother  laughed. 

‘Don’t  I see  you  keeping  to  that!  If  Aubrey’s 
any  good  he’ll  marry  her  straight  away.  And  then 
how  can  father  boycott  her  after  that?  ’ 

‘ He  will,’  said  Pamela  decisively. 

‘ And  if  father  thinks  I’m  going  to  give  up 
Arthur,  he’s  jolly  well  mistaken,’  said  the  boy  with 
energy.  ‘ Arthur’s  the  best  fellow  I know,  and  he’s 
been  just  ripping  to  me.’ 

The  young  face  softened  and  glowed  as  though 
under  the  stress  of  some  guarded  memory.  Pamela, 
looking  up,  caught  her  brother’s  expression  and 
glowed  too. 

‘ Beryl  says  he  isn’t  a bit  strong  yet.  But  he’s 
moving  heaven  and  earth  to  get  back  to  the 
front.’ 


48 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 


‘ Well,  if  they  don’t  give  him  enough  to  do  he’ll 
be  pretty  sick.  He’s  no  good  at  loafing.’ 

There  was  silence  a little.  Outside  a misty  sun- 
shine lay  on  the  garden  and  the  park  and  in  it  the 
changing  trees  were  beginning  to  assume  the  in- 
dividuality and  separateness  of  autumn  after  the 
levelling  promiscuity  of  the  summer.  The  scene  was 
very  English  and  peaceful;  and  between  it  and  the 
two  young  creatures  looking  out  upon  it  there  were 
a thousand  links  of  memory  and  association.  Sud- 
denly Desmond  said: 

‘ Do  you  remember  that  bother  I got  into  at  Eton, 
Pam?  ’ 

Pamela  nodded.  Didn’t  she  remember  it?  A 
long  feud  with  another  boy — ending  in  a highly 
organized  fight — absolute  defiance  of  tutor  and 
housemaster  on  Desmond’s  part — and  threatened  ex- 
pulsion. The  Squire’s  irritable  pride  had  made  him 
side  ostentatiously  with  his  son,  and  Pamela  could 
only  be  miserable  and  expect  the  worst.  Then  sud- 
denly the  whole  convulsion  had  quieted  down,  and 
Desmond’s  last  year  at  Eton  had  been  a very  happy 
one.  Why?  What  had  happened?  Pamela  had 
never  known. 

‘ Well,  Arthur  heard  of  it  from  “ my  tutor.”  He 
and  Arthur  were  at  Trinity  together.  And  Arthur 
came  over  from  Cambridge  and  had  me  out  for  a 
walk,  and  jawed  me,  jawed  “ my  tutor,”  jawed 
the  Head,  jawed  everybody.  Oh,  well  no  good 
going  into  the  rotten  thing,’  said  Desmond, 
flushing,  ‘ but  Arthur  was  awfully  decent  any- 
way.’ 

Pamela  assented  mutely.  She  did  not  want  to 
talk  about  Arthur  Chicksands.  There  was  in  her  a 
queer  foreboding  sense  about  him.  She  did  not  in 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 


49 


the  least  expect  him  to  fall  in  love  with  her;  yet 
there  was  a dim,  intermittent  fear  in  her  lest  he 
might  become  too  important  to  her,  together  with  a 
sharp  shrinking  from  the  news,  which  of  course 
might  come  any  day,  that  he  was  going  to  be  mar- 
ried. She  had  known  him  from  her  childhood,  had 
romped  and  sparred  with  him.  He  was  the  gayest, 
most  charming  companion;  yet  he  carried  with  him, 
quite  unconsciously,  something  that  made  it  delight- 
ful to  be  smiled  at  or  praised  by  him,  and  a distress 
when  you  did  not  get  on  with  him,  and  were  quite 
certain  that  he  thought  you  silly  or  selfish.  There 
was  a rumour  which  reached  Mannering  after  the 
second  battle  of  Ypres  that  he  had  been  killed.  The 
Chicksands’  household  believed  it  for  twenty-four 
hours. 

Then  he  was  discovered — gassed  and  stunned — 
in  a shell-hole,  and  there  had  been  a long  illness  and 
convalescence.  During  the  twenty-four  hours  when 
he  was  believed  to  be  dead,  Pamela  had  spent  the 
April  daylight  in  the  depths  of  the  Mannering 
woods,  in  tangled  hiding-places  that  only  she  knew. 
It  was  in  the  Easter  holidays.  She  was  alone  at 
Mannering  with  an  old  governess,  while  her  father 
was  in  London.  The  little  wrinkled  Frenchwoman 
watched  her  in  silence,  whenever  she  was  allowed  to 
see  her.  Then  when  on  the  second  morning  there 
came  a telegram  from  Chetworth,  and  Pamela  tore 
it  open,  flying  with  it  before  she  read  it  to  the 
secrecy  of  her  own  room,  the  Frenchwoman  smiled 
and  sighed.  ‘ Ca,  c’est  1’ amour!  ’ she  said  to  her- 
self, ‘ assurement  c’est  I’amour  1 ’ And  when  Pam- 
ela came  down  again,  radiant  as  a young  seraph,  and 
ready  to  kiss  the  apple-red  cheek  of  the  French- 
woman— the  rarest  concession! — Madame  Guerin 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 


50 

did  not  need  to  be  told  that  Arthur  Chicksands  was 
safe  and  likely  to  be  sound. 

But  the  Frenchwoman’s  inference  was  premature. 
During  the  two  years  she  had  been  at  school,  Pamela 
had  thought  very  little  of  Arthur  Chicksands.  She 
was  absorbed  in  one  of  those  devotions  to  a woman 
— her  schoolmistress — very  common  among  girls  of 
strong  character,  and  sometimes  disastrous.  In  her 
case  it  had  worked  well.  And  now  the  period  of 
extravagant  devotion  was  over,  and  the  girl’s  mind 
and  heart  set  free.  She  thought  she  had  forgotten 
Arthur  Chicksands,  and  was  certain  he  must  have 
forgotten  her.  As  it  happened  they  had  never  met 
since  his  return  to  the  front  in  the  autumn  of  1915 
— Pamela  was  then  seventeen  and  a schoolgirl — or, 
as  she  now  put  it,  a baby.  She  remembered  the 
child  who  had  hidden  herself  in  the  woods  as  some- 
thing very  far  away. 

And  yet  she  did  not  want  to  talk  about  ‘ Arthur,’ 
as  she  had  always  called  him,  and  there  was  a cer- 
tain tremor  and  excitement  in  her  mind  about  him. 
The  idea  of  being  prevented  from  seeing  him  w'as 
absurd — intolerable.  She  was  already  devising  ways 
and  means  of  doing  it.  It  was  really  not  to  be  ex- 
pected that  filial  obedience  should  reign  at  Manner- 
ing. 

The  twins  had  long  left  the  subject  of  the  embargo 
on  Chetworth,  and  were  wrangling  and  chaffing  over 
the  details  of  Desmond’s  packing,  when  there  v.'as  a 
knock  at  the  door. 

Pamela  stiffened  at  once. 

‘ Come  in ! ’ 

Miss  Bremerton  entered. 

‘ Are  you  very  busy?  ’ 


ELIZABETM’S  CAMPAIGN 


51 


‘ Not  at  all ! ’ said  Desmond  politely,  scurrying 
with  his  best  Eton  manners  to  find  a chair  for  the 
newcomer.  ‘ It’s  an  awful  muddle,  but  that’s 
Pamela ! ’ 

Pamela  aimed  a sponge-bag  at  him,  which  he 
dodged,  and  Elizabeth  Bremerton  sat  down. 

‘ I want  to  hold  a council  with  you,’  she  said,  turn- 
ing a face  just  touched  with  laughter  from  one  to  the 
other.  ‘ Do  you  mind  ? ’ 

‘ Certainly  not,’  said  Desmond,  sitting  on  the  floor 
with  his  hands  round  his  knees.  ‘ What’s  it  about?  ’ 
And  he  gave  Pamela’s  right  foot  a nudge  with  his 
left  by  way  of  conveying  to  her  that  he  thought  her 
behaviour  ungracious.  Pamela  hurriedly  mur- 
mured, ‘ Delighted.’ 

‘ I want  to  tell  you  about  the  servants,’  said  Eliza- 
beth. ‘ I can’t  do  anything  unless  you  help  me.’ 

‘Help  you  in  what?’  said  Desmond,  wondering. 

‘ Well,  you  know,  it’s  simply  scandalous  Avhat 
you’re  all  eating  in  this  house ! ’ exclaimed  Eliza- 
beth, with  sudden  energy.  ‘ You  ought  to  be  fined.’ 
She  frowned,  and  her  fair  Dutch  complexion  became 
a bright  pink. 

‘ It’s  quite  true,’  said  Pamela,  startled.  ‘ I told 
father,  and  he  laughed  at  me.’ 

‘ But  now  even  the  servants  are  on  strike,’  said 
Elizabeth.  ‘ It’s  Forest  that’s  been  preaching  to 
them.  He  and  Cook  have  been  drawing  up  a week’s 
menu,  according  to  the  proper  scale.  But ’ 

‘ Father  won’t  have  it,’  said  Pamela  decidedly. 

‘ An  idea  has  occurred  to  me,’  was  Elizabeth’s 
apologetic  reply.  ‘Your  father  doesn’t  come  in  to 
lunch?  ’ 

‘ Happy  thought!  ’ cried  Desmond.  ‘ Send  him  in 
a Ritz  luncheon,  while  the  rest  of  you  starve.  Easy 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 


52 

enough  for  me  to  say  as  I’m  off — and  soldiers  aren’t 
rationed!  We  may  be  as  greedy  pigs  as  we  like.’ 

‘ What  do  you  say?  ’ Elizabeth  looked  at  Pamela. 
The  girl  was  flattered  by  the  deference  shown  her, 
and  gradually  threw  herself  into  the  little  plot.  How 
to  set  up  a meatless  day  for  the  household,  minus 
the  Squire,  and  not  be  found  out;  ho\v  to  restrict 
the  bread  and  porridge  allowance,  while  apparently 
outrunning  it — knotty  problems!  into  which  the 
twins  plunged  with  much  laughter  and  ingenuity.  At 
the  end  of  the  discussion,  Elizabeth  said  with  hesi- 
tation, ‘ I don’t  like  not  telling  Mr.  Mannering, 
but ’ 

‘ Oh  no,  you  can’t  tell  him’  said  Pamela,  in  her 
most  resolute  tone.  ‘ Besides,  it’s  for  the  country!  ’ 

‘ Yes,  it’s  the  country!  ’ echoed  Elizabeth.  ‘ Oh, 
I’m  so  glad  you  agree  with  me.  Forest’s  splendid!  ’ 

‘ I say,  Broomie’s  not  bad,’  thought  Desmond. 
Aloud  he  said,  ‘ Forest’s  a regular  Turk  in  the  serv- 
ants’ hail — rules  them  all  with  a rod  of  iron.’ 

Elizabeth  laughed.  ‘ He  tells  me  there  was  a 
joint  of  cold  beef  last  night  for  supper,  and  he 
carried  it  away  bodily  back  into  the  larder.  And 
they  all  supped  on  fried  potatoes,  cheese,  oatcake 
and  jam!  So  then  I asked  him  whether  anybody 
minded,  and  he  said  the  little  kitchen-maid  cried  a 
bit,  and  said  she  “ was  used  to  her  vittles  and  her 
mother  would  be  dreadfully  put  out.”  “ ‘ Mother!  ’ 
says  I,  ‘haven’t  you  got  a young  man!*  And  then 
I give  her  a real  talking  to  about  the  war.  ‘ You 
back  your  young  man,’  I said,  ‘ and  there’s  only  one 
way  as  females  can  do  it — barring  them  as  is  in 
munitions.  Every  bit  of  bread  you  don’t  eat  is  help- 
ing to  kill  Boches.  And  what  else  is  your  young 
man  doin’?  Where  do  you  say  he  is?  Wipers? 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 


53 

You  ask  him.  He’ll  tell  you!  ’ So  then  we  were  all 
nice  and  comfortable — and  you  needn’t  bother  about 
us  downstairs.  W eWe  all  right!  ” ’ 

‘ Good  old  Forest!  ’ laughed  Desmond,  delighted. 
‘ I always  knew  he  was  the  real  boss  here.  Father 
thinks  he  is,  but  he  can’t  do  without  Forest,  and  the 
old  boy  knows  it.’ 

‘ Well,  so  that’s  agreed,’  said  Elizabeth  demurely, 
as  she  rose.  ‘ I naturally  couldn’t  do  anything  with- 
out you,  but  so  long  as  your  father  gets  everything 
that  he’s  accustomed  to ’ 

‘ I don’t  see  quite  what  you’re  going  to  do  about 
dinner — late  dinner,  I mean?’  said  Pamela  pen- 
sively. 

Elizabeth  beamed  at  her. 

‘ Well,  I became  a vegetarian  last  week,  except  for 
very  occasional  break-outs.  Fish  is  a vegetable ! ’ 

‘ I see,’  reflected  Pamela.  ‘ We  can  break  out  now 
and  then  at  dinner,  when  father’s  got  his  eye  on 
us ’ 

‘ And  be  pure  patriots  at  lunch,’  laughed  Miss 
Bremerton,  as  she  opened  the  door.  ‘ Au  revoir! 
I must  go  back  to  work.’ 

She  vanished.  The  brother  and  sister  looked  at 
each  other. 

Desmond  gave  his  opinion. 

‘I  believe  she’s  a good  sort!’ 

‘ “ Wait  and  see,”  ’ said  Pamela  pompously,  and 
returned  to  her  packing. 

The  preceding  conversation  took  place  during  a 
break  in  Elizabeth’s  morning  occupations.  She  had 
been  busily  occupied  In  collecting  and  copying  out 
some  references  from  Pausanlas,  under  the  Squire’s 
direction.  He  meanwhile  had  been  cataloguing  and 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 


54 

noting  his  new  possessions,  which,  thanks  to  the  aid 
of  his  henchman  Levasseur,  had  been  already  ar- 
ranged. And  they  made  indeed  a marvellous  addi- 
tion to  the  Mannering  library  and  its  collections. 
At  the  end  of  the  room  stood  now  a huge  archaic 
Nike,  with  outstretched  peplum  and  soaring  wings. 
To  her  left  was  the  small  figure,  archaic  also,  of  a 
charioteer,  from  the  excavations  at  Delphi,  amaz- 
ingly full  of  life  in  spite  of  hieratic  and  traditional 
execution.  But  the  most  conspicuous  thing  of  aU 
was  a mutilated  Eros,  by  a late  Rhodian  artist — 
subtle,  thievish,  lovely,  breathing  an  evil  and 
daemonic  charm.  It  stood  opposite  the  Nike,  ‘ on 
tiptoe  for  a flight’  And  there  was  that  in  it  which 
seemed  at  moments  to  disorganize  the  room,  and 
lay  violent  and  exclusive  hold  on  the  spectator. 

Elizabeth  on  returning  to  her  table  found  the 
library  empty.  The  Squire  had  been  called  away  by 
his  agent  and  one  of  the  new  officials  of  the  county, 
and  had  not  yet  returned.  She  expected  him  to  re- 
turn in  a bad — possibly  an  outrageous  temper.  For 
she  gathered  that  the  summons  had  something  to  do 
with  the  decree  of  the  County  War  Agricultural 
Committee  that  fifty  acres,  at  least,  of  Mannering 
Park  were  to  be  given  back  to  the  plough,  which, 
indeed,  had  only  ceased  to  possess  them  some  sixty 
years  before.  The  Squire  had  gone  out  pale  with 
fury,  and  she  looked  anxiously  at  her  work,  to  see 
Vt^hat  there  might  be  in  it  to  form  an  excuse  for  a 
hurricane. 

She  could  find  nothing,  however,  likely  to  dis- 
please a sane  man.  And  as  she  was  at  a standstill  till 
he  came  back,  she  slipped  an  unfinished  letter  out  of 
her  notebook,  and  went  on  with  it.  It  was  to  a per- 
son whom  she  addressed  as  ‘ my  darling  Dick.’ 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 


55 


‘ I have  now  been  rather  more  than  a month 
here.  You  can’t  imagine  what  a queer  place  it  is, 
nor  what  a queer  employer  I have  struck.  There 
might  be  no  war — as  far  as  Mannering  is  concerned. 
The  Squire  is  always  engaged  in  mopping  it  out, 
like  Mrs.  Partington.  He  takes  no  newspaper,  ex- 
cept a rag  called  the  Lanchester  Mail,  which  at- 
tacks the  Government,  the  Army — as  far  as  it  dare — 
and  “ secret  diplomacy.”  It  comes  out  about  once 
a week  with  a black  page,  because  the  Censor  has 
been  sitting  on  it.  Desmond  Mannering — that’s  the 
gunner-son  who  came  on  leave  a week  ago  and  is 
just  going  off  to  an  artillery  camp — and  I,  conspire 
through  the  butler— who  is  a dear,  and  a patriot — 
to  get  the  Times;  but  the  Squire  never  sees  it.  Des- 
mond reads  it  in  bed  in  the  morning,  I read  it  in 
bed  in  the  evening,  and  Pamela  Mannering,  Mr. 
Desmond’s  twin,  comes  in  last  thing,  in  her  dressing- 
gown,  and  steals  it. 

‘ I seem  indeed  to  be  living  in  the  heart  of  a 
whirlwind,  for  the  Squire  is  fighting  everybody  all 
round,  and  as  he  is  the  least  reticent  of  men,  and  I 
have  to  write  his  letters,  I naturally,  even  by  now, 
know  a good  deal  about  him.  Shortly  put,  he  is  in 
a great  mess.  The  estate  is  riddled  with  mortgages, 
which  it  would  be  quite  easy  to  reduce.  For  in- 
stance, there  are  masses  of  timber,  crying  to  be  cut. 
He  consults  me  often  in  the  nai'vest  way.  You  re- 
member that  I trained  for  six  months  as  an  account- 
ant. I assure  you  that  it  comes  in  extremely  useful 
now ! I can  see  my  way  a little  where  he  can’t  see 
it  at  all.  He  glories  in  the  fact  that  he  was  never 
any  good  at  arithmetic  or  figures  of  any  kind,  and 
never  looked  at  either  after  “ Smalls.”  The  estate 
of  course  used  to  be  looked  after  in  the  good  old- 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 


56 

fashioned  way  by  the  family  lawyers.  But  a few 
years  ago  the  Squire  quarrelled  with  these  gentle- 
men, recovered  all  his  papers,  which  no  doubt  went 
back  to  King  Alfred,  and  resolved  to  deal  with 
things  himself.  There  is  an  office  here,  and  a small 
attorney  from  Fallerton  comes  over  twice  or  three 
times  a week.  But  the  Squire  bosses  it.  And  you 
never  saw  anything  like  his  accounts ! I have  been 
trying  to  put  some  of  them  straight — just  thos“  that 
concern  the  house  and  garden — after  six  weeks’  ac- 
quaintance! Odd,  isn’t  it?  He  is  like  an  irritable 
child  with  them.  And  his  agent,  who  is  seventy,  and 
bronchitic,  is  the  greatest  fool  I ever  saw.  He 
neglects  everything.  His  accounts  too,  as  far  as  I 
have  inspected  them,  are  disgraceful.  He  does  noth- 
ing for  the  farmers,  and  the  farmers  do  exactly  as 
they  please  with  the  land. 

‘ Or  did!  For  now  comes  the  rub.  Government 
is  interfering,  through  the  County  Committee.  They 
are  turning  out  three  of  Mr.  Mannering’s  farmers 
by  force,  because  he  won’t  do  it  himself,  and  plough- 
ing up  the  park.  I believe  the  steam  tractor  comes 
next  week.  The  Squire  has  been  employing  some 
new  lawyers  to  find  out  if  he  can’t  stop  it  somehow. 
And  each  time  he  sees  them  he  comes  home  madder 
than  before. 

‘ Of  course  it  all  comes  from  a passionate  antagon- 
ism to  the  war.  He  is  not  a pacifist  exactly — he  is 
not  a conscientious  objector.  He  is  just  an  in- 
dividualist gone  mad — an  egotistical,  hot-tempered 
man,  with  all  the  ideas  of  the  old  regime,  who 
thinks  he  can  fight  the  world.  I am  often  really 
sorry  for  him — he  is  so  preposterous.  But  the  mud- 
dle and  waste  of  it  all  drives  me  crazy — you  know 
I always  was  a managing  creature. 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 


SI 

‘ But  one  thing  is  certain — that  he  is  a most  ex- 
cellent scholar,  I knew  I had  got  rusty,  but  I didn’t 
know  how  rusty  till  I came  to  work  for  him.  He 
has  a wonderful  memory — seems  to  know  every 
Greek  author  by  heart — and  a most  delicate  and  un- 
erring taste.  I thought  I should  find  a mere  dab- 
bler— an  amateur.  And  it  takes  all  I know  to  do 
the  drudgery  work  he  gives  me.  And  then  he  is 
always  coming  down  upon  me.  It  delights  him  to 
find  me  out  in  a howler — makes  him,  in  fact,  quite 
good-tempered  for  twenty  minutes. 

‘ As  to  the  rest  of  the  family,  there  is  a charm- 
ing boy  and  girl — twins  of  nineteen,  the  boy  just  off 
to  an  artillery  camp  after  his  cadet  training;  the  girl 
extremely  pretty  and  distinguished,  and  so  far  in- 
clined to  think  me  an  intruder  and  a nuisance.  How 
to  get  round  her  I don’t  exactly  know,  but  I daresay 
I shall  manage  it  somehow.  If  she  would  only  set 
up  a love-affair  I could  soon  get  the  whip-hand  of 
her ! 

‘ Then  there  is  the  priceless  butler,  with  whom  I 
have  already  made  friends.  I seem  to  have  a taste 
for  butlers,  though  I’ve  never  lived  with  one.  He 
is  fifty-two  and  a volunteer,  in  stark  opposition  to 
the  Squire,  who  jeers  at  him  perpetually.  Forest 
takes  it  calmly,  seems  even  in  a queer  way  to  be  at- 
tached to  his  queer  master.  But  he  never  misses  a 
drill  for  anybody  or  any  weather,  and  when  he’s 
out,  the  under-housemaid  “ buttles  ” for  him  like  a 
lamb.  The  fact  is,  of  course,  that  he’s  been  here  for 
twenty  years,  and  the  Squire  couldn’t  get  on  for  a 
day  without  him,  or  thinks  he  couldn’t.  So  that  his 
position  is,  as  you  may  say,  strongly  entrenched,  and 
counter-attacks  are  useless. 

‘ The  married  daughters — Mrs.  Gaddesden,  who, 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 


58 

I think,  is  an  Honourable,  and  Mrs.  Strang — are 
coming  to-morrow  to  see  their  brother  before  he 
goes  into  camp.  The  Squire  doesn’t  want  them  at 
all.  Ah,  there  he  comes!  I’ll  finish  later.  . . . ’ 

The  Squire  came  in — to  use  one  of  the  Homeric 
similies  of  which  he  was  so  fond — ‘like  a lion  fresh 
from  a slain  bull,  bespattered  with  blood  and  mire.’ 
He  had  gone  out  pale,  he  returned  crimson,  rubbing 
his  hands  and  in  great  excitement.  And  it  was  evi- 
dent that  he  had  by  now  formed  the  habit  of  talk- 
ing freely  to  his  secretary.  For  he  went  up  to  her 
at  once. 

‘ Well,  now  they  know  what  to  expect!  ’ he  said, 
his  eyes  glittering,  and  all  his  thick  hair  on  his 
small  peaked  head  standing  up  in  a high  ridge,  like 
the  crest  of  a battle-helmet. 

‘ Who  are  “ they  ”?  ’ asked  Elizabeth,  smiling,  as 
she  quietly  pushed  her  letter  a little  further  under 
the  blotting-paper. 

‘ The  County  Council  idiots — no,  the  Inspector 
fellow  they’re  sending  round.’ 

‘And  what  did  you  tell  him?’ 

‘ That  I should  resist  their  entry.  The  gates  of 
the  park  will  be  locked.  And  my  lawyers  are  al- 
ready preparing  a case  for  the  High  Court.  Well — 
eh! — what?’ — the  speaker  wound  up  impatiently, 
as  though  waiting  for  an  immediate  and  applauding 
response. 

Elizabeth  was  silent.  She  bent  over  the  Greek 
book  in  front  of  her,  as  though  looking  for  her 
place. 

‘You  didn’t  think  I was  going  to  take  it  Ivinof 
down ! ’ asked  the  Squire,  in  a raised  voice.  Her 
silence  suggested  to  him  afresh  all  the  odious  and 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 


59 

tyrannical  forces  by  which  he  felt  himself  sur- 
rounded. 

Elizabeth  turned  to  him  with  a cheerful  counte- 
nance. 

‘ I don’t  quite  understand  what  “ it  ” means,’  she 
said  politely. 

‘Nonsense,  you  do!’  was  the  angry  reply. 
‘ That’s  so  like  a woman.  They  always  want  to 
catch  you  out;  they  never  see  things  simply  and 
broadly.  You’d  like  to  make  yourself  out  a fool — 
y^Ttia — and  you’re  not  a fool  I ’ 

And  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets  he  made  two 
or  three  long  strides  up  to  the  Nike,  at  the  further 
end  of  the  room,  and  back,  pulling  up  beside  her 
again,  as  though  challenging  her  reply. 

‘ I assure  you,  sir,  I wasn’t  trying  to  catch  you 
out,’  Elizabeth  began  in  her  gentlest  voice. 

‘Don’t  call  me  “sir.”  I won’t  have  it!’  cried 
the  Squire,  almost  stamping. 

Then  Elizabeth  laughed  outright. 

‘ I’m  sorry,  but  when  I was  working  in  the  War 
Trade  Department  I always  called  the  head  of  my 
room  “ sir.”  ’ 

‘ That’s  because  women  like  kow-towing — dovloff- 
vvr}v  avix^GdaiX"'  said  the  Squire.  Then  he  threw 
himself  into  a chair.  ‘ Now  let’s  talk  sense  a little.’ 

Elizabeth’s  attentive  look,  and  lips  quivering  v^^itH 
amusement  which  she  tried  in  vain  to  suppress,  and 
he  was  determined  not  to  see,  showed  her  more  than 
willing. 

‘ I suppose  you  think — like  that  fellow  I’ve  just 
routed — that  it’s  a question  of  food  production.  It 
isn’t!  It’s  a question  of  liberty — versus  bondage. 
If  we  can  only  survive  as  slaves,  then  wipe  us  outj 
That’s  my  view.’ 


6o 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 


‘Wasn’t  there  a bishop  once  who  said  he  would 
rather  have  England  free  than  sober?’  asked 
Elizabeth. 

‘ And  a very  sensible  man,’  growled  the  Squire, 
‘ though  in  general  I’ve  no  use  for  bishops.  Now 
you  understand,  I hope?  This  is  going  to  be  a test 
case.  I’ll  make  England  ring.’ 

‘ Are  you  sure  they  can’t  settle  It  at  once,  under 
the  Defence  of  the  Realm  Act?  ’ 

‘ Not  they!  ’ said  the  Squire  triumphantly.  ‘Of 
course.  I’m  not  putting  up  a frontal  defence.  I’m 
outflanking  them.  I’m  proving  that  this  Is  the  worst 
land  they  could  possibly  choose.  I’m  offering  them 
something  else  that  they  don’t  want.  Meanwhile 
the  gates  shall  be  locked,  and  If  any  one  or  anything 
breaks  them  down — my  lawyers  are  ready — we 
apply  for  an  injunction  at  once.’ 

‘And  you’re  not — well,  nervous?’  asked  Miss 
Bremerton,  with  a charming  air  of  presenting  some- 
thing that  might  have  been  overlooked. 

‘ Nervous  of  what?  ’ 

‘ Isn’t  the  law — the  new  law — rather  dreadfully 
strong?  ’ 

‘ Oh,  you  think  I shall  end  In  the  county  gaol?  ’ 
said  the  Squire  abruptly.  ‘ Well,  of  course  ’ — he 
took  a reflective  turn  up  and  down — ‘ I’ve  no  par- 
ticular wish  just  now  for  the  county  gaol.  It  would 
be  an  Infernal  nuisance — in  the  middle  of  this  book. 
But  I mean  to  give  them  as  much  trouble  as  I can. 
I’m  all  right  so  far.’ 

He  looked  up  suddenly,  and  caught  an  expression 
on  his  secretary’s  face  which  called  him  to  order  at 
once,  though  he  was  not  meant  to  see  It.  Contempt? 
— cold  contempt?  Something  like  it. 

The  Squire  drew  himself  up. 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN  6i 

‘ You’ve  made  the  arrangements,  I suppose,  for 
to-morrow?  ’ 

He  spoke  curtly,  as  the  master  of  the  house  to  a 
dependant. 

Elizabeth  meekly  replied  that  she  had  done  every- 
thing according  to  his  directions.  Mrs.  Gaddesden 
was  to  have  the  South  rooms. 

‘I  said  the  East  rooms!  ’ 

‘ But  I thought ’ Elizabeth  began  in  conster- 

nation. 

‘ You  thought  wrong,’  said  the  Squire  cuttingly. 
‘ Do  not  trouble  yourself.  I will  tell  Forest.’ 

Elizabeth  coloured  crimson,  and  went  on  with  her 
work.  The  Squire  rang  the  bell.  But  before  Forest 
could  answer  it,  there  was  a quick  step  in  the  pas- 
sage, and  Desmond  came  bursting  in. 

‘Pater,  I say!  it’s  too  fine!  You  can’t  frowst 
all  day  at  this  nonsense.  Come  out,  and  let’s  shoot 
those  roots  of  Milsom’s.  He  told  me  yesterday 
there  were  five  or  six  coveys  in  his  big  field  alone. 
Of  course  everybody’s  been  poaching  for  all  they’re 
worth.  But  there’s  some  left.  Forest  ’ll  get  us  some 
sandwiches.  He  says  he’ll  come  and  load  for  you. 
Flis  boy  and  the  garden  boy  ’ll  do  for  beaters.’ 

The  Squire  stood  glumly  hesitating,  but  with  his 
eye  on  his  son. 

‘ Look  here,’  said  Desmond,  ‘ I’ve  only  got  two 
days ! ’ 

Elizabeth  could  not  help  watching  the  boy — his 
look  at  his  father,  the  physical  beauty  and  perfec- 
tion of  him.  The  great  Victory  at  the  end  of  the 
room  with  her  outstretched  wings  seemed  to  be 
hovering  above  him. 

‘ Well,  I don’t  mind,’  said  the  Squire  slowly. 

Desmond  gave  a laugh  of  triumph,  twined  his 


62 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 

arm  In  that  of  his  father,  and  dragged  him 
away. 

‘ Dear  beloved  Dick — I must  just  finish  this 
before  dinner.  Oh,  how  I like  to  think  of  you  at 
Baghdad,  with  trees  and  shade,  and  civilized  quar- 
ters again,  after  all  you’ve  gone  through.  Have  you 
got  my  letters,  and  those  gauze  things  I sent  you 
for  the  hot  weather?  They  tell  me  here  they’re 
right.  But  how’s  one  to  know?  Meanwhile,  my 
dear,  here  are  your  mother  and  sister  on  their  knees 
to  you,  just  to  be  told  what  you  want.  Try  and 
want  something! — there’s  a dear. 

‘ Mother’s  fairly  well — I mean  as  well  as  we  can 
expect  after  such  an  illness.  My  salary  here  enables 
me  to  give  her  a proper  trained  nurse,  and  to  send 
Jean  to  school.  As  to  the  rest,  don’t  trouble  about 
me,  old  man.  Sometimes  I think  it  was  my  pride 
more  than  anything  else  that  was  hurt  a year  ago. 
Anyway  I find  in  myself  a tremendous  appetite  for 
work.  In  spite  of  his  oddities,  Mr.  Tvlannering  Is 
a most  stimulating  critic  and  companion.  My  work 
Is  interesting,  and  I find  myself  steeped  once  more  In 
the  most  fascinating,  the  most  wonderful  of  all  lit- 
eratures! What  remains  unsatisfied  In  me  is  the 
passion  which  you  know  I have  always  had  for  set- 
ting things  straight — organizing,  tidying  up  ! Not 
to  speak  of  other  passions — for  work  directly  con- 
nected with  the  war,  for  Instance — which  have  had 
to  be  scrapped  for  a time.  I can’t  bear  the  muddle 
and  waste  of  this  place.  It  gets  on  my  nerves.  Per- 
haps, If  I stay,  I may  get  a chance.  I have  made  a 
small  beginning — with  the  food.  But  I won’t  bother 
you  with  it. 

‘ Above  all,  I must  try  and  make  friends  with  the 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 


twins.  Desmond  would  be  easy,  but  he’s  going. 
Pamela  will  be  more  difficult.  However,  I shall  do 
my  best.  As  I have  already  said,  if  she  would  only 
set  up  a flirtation— a nice  one— that  I could  aid  and 
abet! 

‘ What  will  the  married  sisters  be  like  ? Desmond 
and  Pamela  say  very  little.  All  I know  is  that  Alice 
— -that’s  Mrs.  Gaddesden— is  to  have  a fire  in  her 
room  all  day,  though  the  weather  now  is  like  July. 
To  judge  from  her  photographs,  she  is  fair,  rather 
pretty,  stout  and  lethargic.  Whereas  Margaret  is 
as  thin  almost  as  her  father,  and  head-over-ears  in 
war  charities.  She  lives,  says  Pamela,  on  arrowroot 
and  oatcake,  to  set  an  example,  and  her  servants 
leave  her  regularly  every  month. 

‘Well,  we  shall  see.  I run  on  like  this,  because 
you  say  you  like  to  be  gossipped  to;  and  I am  just 
a little  lonely  here — sometimes.  Good-night,  and 
good-bye. — -Your  devoted  sister, 

‘ Elizabeth.’ 


CHAPTER  IV 


COME  in ! ’ said  Alice  Gaddesden  in  a languid 
tone.  From  the  knock,  sharp  and  loud,  on 
her  bedroom  door,  she  guessed  that  it  was  her 
sister  Margaret  who  wished  to  see  her.  She  did  not 
wish,  however,  to  see  Margaret  at  all.  Margaret, 
who  was  slightly  the  elder,  tired  and  coerced  her. 
But  she  had  no  choice. 

Mrs.  Strang  entered  briskly. 

‘ My  dear  Alice ! what  a time  of  day  to  be  in  bed ! 
Are  you  really  ill?  ’ 

Mrs.  Gaddesden  grew  red  with  annoyance. 

‘ I thought  I had  told  you,  Margaret,  that  Dr. 
Crother  advised  me  more  than  a year  ago  not  to 
come  down  till  the  middle  of  the  morning.  It  rests 
my  heart.’ 

Mrs.  Strang,  who  had  come  up  to  the  bedside, 
looked  down  upon  her  sister  with  amused  eyes.  She 
herself  was  curiously  like  the  Squire,  even  as  to  her 
hair,  which  was  thick  and  fair,  and  already  whiten- 
ing, though  she  was  not  yet  thirty.  Human  thinness 
could  hardly  have  been  carried  further  than  she 
and  the  Squire  achieved  it.  She  had  her  father’s 
nose  also.  But  the  rest  of  her  features  were  deli- 
cately regular,  and  her  quick  blue  eyes  were  those  of 
a woman  who  told  ne  falsehoods  herself,  and  had 
little  patience  with  other  people’s. 

‘ My  dear  Alice,  why  do  you  believe  doctors? 
They  always  tell  you  what  you  want  to  hear.  I am 
sure  you  told  Dr.  Crother  exactly  what  to  say,’  said 

64 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN  65 

Margaret,  laughing,  as  she  placed  a chair  by  the 
bedside. 

‘ Oh,  of  course  I know  you  think  everybody’s  a 
sham  who  isn’t  as  strong  as  yourself!’  said  Mrs. 
Gaddesden,  sinking  back  on  her  pillows  with  a soft 
sigh  of  resignation.  ‘Though  I think  you  might 
have  remembered  the  horribly  hard  work  I’ve  been 
doing  lately.’ 

‘ Have  you  ? ’ Mrs,  Strang  wrinkled  her  brow,  as 
though  in  an  effort  to  recollect.  ‘ Oh,  yes,  I know. 
I have  always  been  getting  notices  lately  with  your 
name  on  them,  at  the  end  of  a long  tail  beginning 
with  a Duchess,  and  stuffed  with  Countesses.  And 
I always  think — there’s  Alice  doing  the  work,  and 
the  Countesses  getting  the  glory.  Do  you  really  do 
the  work?  ’ 

And  Margaret,  who  did  not  often  see  her  sister, 
and  was  of  a genuinely  inquiring  turn  of  mind, 
turned  upon  her  a penetrating  look. 

‘ Well,  of  course,’  said  Mrs.  Gaddesden,  a little 
confused,  ‘ there  are  always  the  secretaries.’ 

‘ Ah-ha ! ’ Mrs,  Strang  laughed — one  might  al- 
most say  crowed.  ‘Yes,  indeed,  if  it  weren’t  for 
the  secretaries ! By  the  way,  what  do  you  think 
about  the  specimen  here?’ 

Mrs.  Gaddesden  lost  her  languid  air  at  once.  She 
sat  up  among  her  pillows,  a reasonably  pretty 
woman,  not  without  some  likeness  to  Pamela,  in 
points  that  did  not  matter. 

‘ My  dear  Margaret,’  she  said,  with  emphasis, 
‘this  has  got  to  be  watched! — watched,  I tell  you.’ 

Mrs.  Strang  opened  her  eyes  wide. 

‘ What  on  earth  do  you  mean?  ’ 

Alice  Gaddesden  smiled. 

‘Well,  of  course,  you’re  much  cleverer  than  I 


66 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 


am,  but  I really  do  see  further  in  practical  matters 
than  you  do.  Haven’t  you  noticed,’  she  bent  for- 
ward, looking  mysterious  and  intent,  ‘ how  already 
father  depends  upon  her,  how  she’s  beginning  to 
run  the  whole  show — and  she  hasn’t  been  here  much 
more  than  six  weeks?  My  dear  Margaret,  with  a 
secretary  like  that  you  never  can  tell ! ’ 

‘ Well,’  said  Mrs.  Strang  coolly,  ‘ and  what  then?  ’ 
‘ Oh,  well,  of  course,  if  you’re  prepared  to  see  a 
person  like  that — in  our  mother’s  place ! ’ 

‘ “ A person  like  that  ” — how  dreadfully  old- 
fashioned  you  are,  Alice!  She’s  a lady;  she’s  much 
more  highly  educated  than  you  or  I,  and  if  she  gets 
her  way,  she’ll  perhaps  keep  father  out  of  some  of 
the  scrapes  he  seems  bent  on.  You  know  this  busi- 
ness of  the  park  is  perfectly  mad!  ’ 

For  the  first  time  in  this  conversation  Margaret 
Strang’s  face  was  grave.  And  when  it  was  grave, 
some  people  would  have  called  it  fine. 

‘ And  just  think  what  it’ll  cost,’  said  Mrs.  Gad- 
desden  despondently,  ‘ even  if  he  had  a case — which 
he  probably  hasn’t — and  if  he  were  to  win  it. 
There’ll  be  no  money  left  for  Aubrey  or  any  of  us 
soon.’ 

‘ But  of  course  he  hasn’t  a case,  and  of  course  he 
can’t  win!  ’ cried  Margaret  Strang.  ‘It’s  not  that 
I care  about — or  the  money — it’s  the  disgrace  ! ’ 

‘ Yes,’  murmured  Alice  doubtfully. 

‘ When  you  think ’ 

Mrs.  Strang  paused;  her  bright  blue  eyes,  alive 
with  thoughts,  were  fixed  absently  on  her  sister. 
She  seemed  to  see  a number  of  shabby  streets,  where 
she  was  accustomed  to  work,  with  little  shabby  shops, 
and  placards  on  them — ‘ No  butter,’  ‘ No  milk,’  and 
apples  marked  4d.  each. 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 


67 


‘ Think  what?  ’ said  Alice. 

Mrs.  Strang’s  mind  returned  to  Alice,  and  Alice’s 
very  elaborate  and  becoming  negligee. 

‘ Only  that,  in  my  opinion,  it’s  the  duty  of  every 
landowner  to  produce  every  ounce  of  food  he  can, 
and  to  do  what  he’s  told!  And  father  not  only  sets 
a shocking  example,  but  he  picks  this  absurd  quarrel 
with  the  Chicksands.  What  on  earth  is  Aubrey  to 
do?  Or  poor  Beryl?  ’ 

‘ Well,  he  comes  to-night,’  said  Alice,  ‘ so  I sup- 
pose we  shall  hear.  I can’t  make  Aubrey  out,’  she 
added  reflectively. 

‘ Nobody  can.  I was  talking  to  a brother-oflicer 
of  his  last  week,  a man  who’s  awfully  fond  of  him. 
He  told  me  Aubrey  did  his  work  very  well.  He  was 
complimented  by  Headquarters  on  his  School  only 
last  month.  But  he’s  like  an  automaton.  Nobody 
really  knows  him,  nobody  gets  any  forarder  with 
him.  He  hardly  speaks  to  anybody  except  on  busi- 
ness. The  mess  regard  him  as  a wet  blanket,  and 
his  men  don’t  care  about  him,  though  he’s  a capital 
officer.  Isn’t  it  strange,  when  one  thinks  of  what 
Aubrey  used  to  be  five  years  ago  ? ’ 

Alice  agreed.  Perhaps  he  was  still  suffering  from 
the  effects  of  his  wound  in  1915. 

‘ Anyway  he  can’t  give  Beryl  up,’  said  Margaret 
with  energy,  ‘ if  he’s  a man  of  honour  1 ’ 

Alice  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

‘ Then  he’ll  give  up  the  estate,  according  to 
father.’ 

‘ Desmond  would  give  It  back  to  him,  if  there’s 
anything  left  of  it,  or  if  he  wants  it.’ 

‘ Margaret  1 ’ 

‘ You  think  I don’t  care  about  the  family — that 
there  should  always  be  a Mannering  of  Mannering? 


6S 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 


Yes,  I do  care,  but  there  are  so  many  other  things 
now  to  care  about,’  added  Mrs.  Strang  slowly. 

‘Who’s  making  me  late  now?’  said  Alice,  look- 
ing at  her  watch. 

Margaret  took  the  hint  and  departed. 

That  same  evening,  in  the  September  dusk,  a dog- 
cart arrived  at  the  Hall,  bringing  Major  Mannering 
and  a Gladstone  bag. 

Pamela  and  Desmond  rushed  out  to  meet  him. 
Their  elder  sisters  were  dressing  for  dinner,  and 
the  Squire  was  in  the  library  with  Elizabeth.  The 
twins  dragged  the  newcomer  into  their  own  den, 
and  shut  the  door  upon  him.  There  Desmond  gave 
him  a breathless  survey  of  the  situation,  while  Pam- 
ela sat  on  a stool  at  his  feet,  and  put  in  explanatory 
words  at  intervals.  Their  father’s  extraordinary 
preparations  for  waging  war  against  the  County 
Committee;  his  violence  on  the  subject  of  the  Chick- 
sands;  Beryl’s  despairing  letters  to  Pamela;  a letter 
from  Arthur  Chicksands  to  Desmond, — all  these 
various  items  were  poured  out  on  the  newcomer, 
with  an  eagerness  and  heat  which  showed  the  ex- 
treme interest  which  the  twins  took  in  the  situa- 
tion. 

Meanwhile  Aubrey  Mannering  sat  listening  al- 
most in  silence.  He  was  a delicately  built,  distin- 
guished-looking man,  who  carried  a large  scar  on 
his  forehead,  and  had  lost  a finger  of  the  left  hand. 
The  ribbons  on  his  breast  showed  that  he  was  both 
an  M.C.  and  a D.S.O. — distinctions  won  at  the  sec- 
ond battle  of  Ypres  and  on  the  Somme.  While  the 
twins  talked,  his  eyes  travelled  from  one  to  the 
other,  attentive,  but  curiously  aloof. 

He  was  saying  to  himself  that  Pamela  was  ex- 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 


69 

tremely  pretty,  and  Desmond  a splendid  fellow. 
Then — in  a moment — while  he  looked  at  his  young 
brother,  a vision,  insistent,  terrible,  passed  ghost- 
like between  him  and  the  boy.  Again  and  again  he 
tried  to  shake  it  off,  and  again  and  again  it  inter- 
posed. 

‘ Oh,  Aubrey,  what  will  you  do  ? ’ said  Pamela 
despairingly,  leaning  her  head  against  her  brother’s 
knee. 

Her  voice  recalled  him.  He  laid  his  hand  upon 
her  beautiful  hair. 

‘ Well,  dear,  there’s  only  one  thing,  of  course,  for 
me  to  do — to  stick  to  Beryl  and  let  father  do  his 
worst.’ 

‘ Hurrah ! ’ said  Desmond.  ‘ That’s  all  right. 
And  of  course  you  know,  Aubrey,  that  if  father 
tries  any  hankey-pankey  with  the  estate,  and  leaves 
it  to  me,  I shall  '^ive  it  back  to  you  next  day.’ 

Aubrey  smiled.  “ Father  ’ll  live  another  twenty 
years,  old  man.  Will  there  be  any  England  then, 
or  any  law,  or  any  estates  to  leave?  ’ 

The  twins  looked  at  him  in  amazement.  Again 
he  recovered  himself  quickly. 

‘ I only  meant  that,  in  times  like  these,  it’s  no 
good  planning  anything  twenty  years  ahead.  We’ve 
got  to  win  the  war,  haven’t  we? — that’s  the  first 
thing.  Well,  now,  I must  go  and  clean  up.  Who’s 
here?  ’ 

‘ Alice  and  Margaret,’  said  Pamela.  ‘ And 
father’s  new  secretary.’ 

‘ You  never  told  me  about  bim,’  said  Aubrey  In- 
differently, as  he  rose. 

‘ “ Him  ” indeed!  ’ laughed  Desmond.  ‘ Nothing 
of  the  sort!  ’ 

Aubrey  turned  a puzzled  look  upon  him. 


70 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 


‘What!  a lady?’ 

Desmond  grinned. 

‘ First  Class  in  Mods,  and  an  awful  swell.  Father 
can’t  let  her  out  of  his  sight.  Says  he  never  had  any- 
body so  good.' 

‘ And  she’ll  end  by  bossing  us  all,’  put  in  Pamela. 
‘ She’s  begun  it  already.  Now  you  really  must  go 
and  dress.’ 

When  the  eldest  son  of  the  house  entered  the 
drawing-room,  he  found  everybody  gathered  there 
but  his  father  and  the  Rector,  who  was  coming  to 
dine.  He  was  at  once  seized  on  by  his  married 
sisters,  who  saw  him  very  rarely.  Then  Pamela  led 
him  up  to  a tall  lady  in  pale  blue. 

‘ My  eldest  brother — Miss  Bremerton.’ 

He  looked  at  her  with  curiosity,  and  was  glad 
v/hen,  after  the  arrival  of  his  father  and  the  Rector, 
it  fell  to  him  to  take  the  new  secretary  in  to  dinner. 
His  father’s  greeting  to  him  had  been  decidedly 
cool — the  greeting  of  a man  who  sees  a fight  im- 
pending and  wishes  to  give  away  nothing  to  his  op- 
ponent. In  fact  the  two  men  had  never  been  on 
really  cordial  terms  since  August  1914,  when  Aubrey 
had  thrown  up  his  post  in  the  Foreign  Office  to  apply 
for  one  of  the  first  temporary  commissions  in  the 
New  Army.  The  news  came  at  a moment  when  the 
Squire  was  smarting  under  the  breakdown  of  a long- 
cherished  scheme  of  exploration  in  the  Greek  islands, 
which  was  to  have  been  realized  that  very  autumn — 
a scheme  towards  which  his  whole  narrow  impetu- 
ous mind  had  been  turned  for  years.  No  more 
Hellenic  or  Asia  Minor  excavations  1 no  more  cos- 
mopolitan fVissenschaft!  On  that  fatal  August  4 
a whole  world  went  down  submerged  beneath  the 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 


71 

waves  of  war,  and  the  Squire  cared  for  no  other. 
His  personal  chagrin  showed  itself  in  abuse  of  the 
bungling  diplomats  and  ‘ swashbuckler  ’ politicians 
who,  according  to  him,  had  brought  us  into  war. 
So  that  when  Aubrey  applied  for  a commission,  the 
Squire,  mainly  to  relieve  his  own  general  irritation, 
had  quarrelled  with  him  for  some  months,  and  was 
only  outwardly  reconciled  when  his  son  came  home 
invalided  in  1915. 

During  the  summer  of  1917,  Aubrey,  after  spend- 
ing three  days’  leave  at  Mannering,  had  gone  on  to 
stay  at  Chetworth  with  the  Chicksands  for  a week. 
The  result  of  that  visit  was  a letter  to  his  father  in 
which  he  announced  his  engagement  to  Beryl.  The 
Squire  could  make  then  no  open  opposition,  since 
he  was  still  on  friendly  terms  with  Sir  Henry,  who 
had  indeed  done  him  more  than  one  good  turn.  But 
in  reply  to  his  son’s  letter,  he  stood  entirely  on  the 
defensive,  lest  any  claim  should  be  made  upon  him 
which  might  further  interfere  with  the  passion  of 
his  life.  He  was  not,  he  said,  in  a position  to  in- 
crease Aubrey’s  allowance — the  Government  rob- 
bers had  seen  to  that — and  unless  Beryl  was  pre- 
pared to  be  a poor  man’s  wife  he  advised  them  to 
wait  till  after  the  war.  Then  Sir  Henry  had  ridden 
over  to  Mannering  with  a statement  of  what  he 
v/as  prepared  to  do  for  his  daughter,  and  the  Squire 
had  given  ungracious  consent  to  a marriage  in  the 
spring.  Chicksands  knew  his  man  too  well  to  take 
offence  at  the  Squire’s  manners,  and  Beryl  was  for 
a time  too  timidly  and  blissfully  happy  to  be  troubled 
by  them. 

‘ You  have  been  here  a few  weeks,’  said  the  new- 
comer to  Elizabeth,  when  the  party  had  settled  down 
at  table. 


72  ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 

‘ About  six  weeks.  It  seems  longer ! ’ smiled  Eliza- 
beth. 

‘ You  are  doing  some  work  for  my  father?  ’ 

Elizabeth  explained  herself.  Major  Mannering 
listened  attentively. 

‘ So  what  you  do  for  him  is  literary — and  his- 
torical ? ’ 

‘ Oh  no — I do  accounts,  and  write  letters  too.’ 

‘ Accounts?  I thought  there  was  a housekeeper?  ’ 

‘ She  went  a month  ago  to  the  W.A.A.C.’s. 
Please ! — do  you  mind?  ’ And  to  his  amazement,  as 
he  was  putting  out  his  hand  automatically  to  a piece 
of  bread  lying  on  his  left.  Miss  Bremerton’s  hand 
holding  a fork  neatly  intercepted  him,  and  moved 
the  bread  away. 

‘ It’s  our  “ Self-denying  Ordinance,”  ’ explained 
the  lady,  colouring  a little.  ‘ The  bread  appears  be- 
cause— because  your  father  doesn’t  think  rations 
necessary.  But  no  one  touches  it,  and  Forest  col- 
lects it  afterwards — for  breakfast.’ 

A smile  broke  on  Aubrey’s  grave  and  pensive  face. 

‘ I see.  Mayn’t  I really  have  any?  ’ 

Elizabeth  hesitated. 

‘ Well,  perhaps,  as  a guest,  and  a soldier.  Yes,  I 
think  you  may.’  And  she  would  have  restored  her 
prey  had  not  her  neighbour  stopped  her. 

‘ Not  at  all.  As  a soldier  I obey  orders.  My 
hat!  how  you’ve  drilled  them  all!’  For,  looking 
round  the  table,  he  saw  that  not  a single  guest  had 
touched  the  bread  lying  to  their  left. 

‘That’s  Pamela  and  Mr.  Desmond!  They’ve 
given  everybody  a menu  for  three  days.’ 

‘ Good  heavens — not  my  father ! ’ 

‘ Oh  no,  no!  We  don’t  think  he  suspects  any- 
thing, and  he  has  everything  he  likes.’ 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 


73 

‘ And  my  married  sisters  ? ’ Elizabeth  hesitated 
again. 

‘ Well,  Mrs.  Gaddesden  is  rather  afraid  of  being 
starved.  Mrs.  Strang,  on  the  other  hand,  thinks 
we’re  wickedly  extravagant ! ’ 

Her  neighbour  was  so  much  amused  that  con- 
versation flowed  on  easily  thenceforward;  and  Des- 
mond opposite  whispered  to  Pamela: 

‘ Just  look  at  Broomie ! She’s  actually  making 
Aubrey  talk.’ 

The  Major’s  role,  however,  was  on  the  whole 
that  of  listener.  For  Elizabeth  meant  to  talk — 
meant  to  explain  herself  to  the  son  and  heir,  and, 
if  she  could,  to  drive  him  to  an  interest  in  the  family 
affairs.  To  her  trained,  practical  mind  the  whole 
clan  seemed  by  now  criminally  careless  and  happy- 
go-lucky,  The  gardens  were  neglected;  so  was  the 
house;  so  was  the  estate.  The  gardens  ought  to 
have  been  made  self-supporting;  there  were  at 
least  a third  too  many  servants  in  the  house ; 
and  as  for  the  estate,  instead  of  being  a profit- 
making and  food-producing  concern,  as  it  should 
have  been,  it  was  a bye-word  for  bad  man-* 
agement  and  neglected  land.  She  did  not  pretend 
to  know  much  about  it  yet;  but  what  she  did  know 
roused  her.  England  was  at  grips  with  a-  brutal  foe. 
The  only  weapon  that  could  defeat  her  was  famine 
— the  sloth  and  waste  of  her  own  sons.  This  woman, 
able,  energetic,  a lover  of  her  country,  could  not 
conceal  her  scorn  for  such  a fatal  incompetence. 
Naturally,  in  talking  to  the  eldest  son,  she  made 
the  agent  her  scapegoat  for  the  sins  of  the  owner. 
The  Squire’s  responsibility  was  carefully  masked. 
But  Aubrey  Mannering  perfectly  understood  what 
she  would  be  at.  She  was  a clever  woman  who 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 


74 

wanted  things  improved.  Well,  let  her  improve 
them.  It  did  not  matter  to  him. 

But  she  appeared  to  him  as  a somev/hat  special 
type  of  the  modern  woman,  with  her  advanced  edu- 
cation and  her  clear  brain;  and  for  a time  he  ob- 
served her  curiously.  The  graceful  dress,  pale  blue 
with  touches  of  black,  which  exactly  became  her 
fair  skin,  the  bright  gold  of  her  hair,  and  the  pleas- 
ant homeliness  of  her  face — her  general  aspect  in- 
deed— attracted  him  greatly.  She  might  know  Greek; 
at  heart,  he  believed,  she  was  a good  housewife; 
and  when  she  incidentally  mentioned  Dutch  rela- 
tions, he  seemed  to  see  her  with  a background  of 
bright  pots  and  pans,  mopping  tiled  floors. 

But  presently  he  ceased  to  pay  much  attention  to 
her.  His  dreamy  sense  became  aware  of  the  scene 
as  a whole;  the  long  table;  his  father’s  fantastic 
figure  at  the  head  of  it;  Alice  Gaddesden  elaborately 
dressed  and  much  made  up  on  the  one  side,  his  sister 
Margaret  in  a high  black  gown,  erect  and  honest, 
on  the  other;  Desmond  and  Pamela  together,  chat- 
ting and  chaffing  with  the  Rector.  It  was  the  room 
so  familiar  to  his  childhood  and  youth,  with  the 
family  pictures,  the  Gainsborough  full-length  of 
his  very  plain  great-grandmother  in  white  satin  at 
the  end,  two  or  three  Vandyck  school-portraits  of 
seventeenth-century  Mannerings,  and  the  beautiful 
Hogarth  head — their  best  possession — that  was  so 
like  Pamela.  The  furniture  of  the  room  was  of 
many  different  dates — incongruous,  shabby,  and  on 
the  whole  ugly.  The  Mannerings  of  the  past  had 
not  been  an  artistic  lot. 

Nor  had  the  room — the  house  indeed — many  ten- 
der associations  for  him.  His  childhood  had  not 
been  very  happy.  He  had  never  got  on  with  his 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 


75 

father,  and  his  mother,  who  had  been  the  victim  of 
various  long  illnesses  during  his  boyhood,  had  never, 
unluckily,  meant  much  to  him.  He  knew  that  he 
was  of  a very  old  stock,  v^hich  had  played  a long 
and  considerable  part  in  the  world;  but  the  fact 
brought  him  no  thrill.  ‘ That  kind  of  thing  is 
played  out,’  he  thought.  Let  his  father  disinherit 
him — he  was  quite  indifferent. 

Then,  as  he  fell  silent  beside  his  father’s  new 
secretary,  the  table  vanished.  He  saw  instead  the 
wide  Picardy  flats,  a group  of  poplars,  a distant 
wood,  and  in  front  a certain  hollow  strewn  with 
dead  and  dying  men — one  figure,  in  front  of  the 
rest,  lying  face  downwards.  The  queer  twisted 
forms,  the  blasted  trees,  the  inexorable  horror — 
the  whole  vision  swept  over  him  again,  as  it  had 
done  in  the  schoolroom.  His  nerves  shrank  and 
trembled  under  it. 

Beryl — poor  little  Beryl ! Vv^hat  a wretch  he  had 
been  to  propose  to  her — in  a moment  of  moral  and 
physical  w^eakness,  v/hen  it  had  seemed  a simple  thing 
to  accept  her  affection  and  to  pledge  his  own ! But 
if  she  stood  by  him,  he  must  stand  by  her.  And 
he  had  had  the  kindest  letter  from  Sir  Henry,  and 
some  sweet  tremulous  words  from  her.  Suppose 
she  offered  to  release  him?  His  heart  leapt  guiltily 
at  the  thought.  What,  indeed,  had  a man  so 
haunted  and  paralysed  to  give  to  a girl  like  Beryl? 
It  was  an  outrage — it  ought  to  cease. 

But  as  to  his  father,  that  was  simple  enough. 

The  Squire  and  his  eldest  son  retreated  to  the 
library  after  dinner,  and  all  the  rest  of  the  party 
waited  uneasily  to  see  what  would  happen.  Eliza- 
beth did  her  best  to  ke^  things  going.  It  might 
have  been  noticed — it  was  noticed  by  at  least  tvm 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 


76 

of  the  persons  present — ^that  quite  unobtrusively, 
she  was  already  the  mistress  of  the  house.  She 
found  a stool  and  a fire-screen  for  Mrs.  Gaddesden; 
she  held  some  wool  for  Mrs.  Strang  to  wind;  and 
a backgammon  board  was  made  ready  for  the  Squire, 
in  case  he  returned. 

But  he  did  not  return.  Aubrey  came  back  alone, 
and  found  them  all  hanging  on  his  entrance.  Pam- 
ela put  down  her  knitting  and  looked  at  him  anx- 
iously; so  did  the  elder  sisters.  He  v/ent  up 
absently  to  the  chimney-piece,  and  stood  leaning 
against  it. 

‘ Well?  ’ said  Pamela  in  a low  voice,  as  she  came 
to  sit  on  a stool  near  him. 

He  smiled,  but  she  saw  that  he  was  pale. 

‘ Can  you  take  me  over  to  Chetworth  to-morrow 
— early — in  the  pony-cart?  ’ 

‘ Yes,  certainly.’ 

‘Half-past  ten?’ 

‘ Right  you  are.’ 

No  more  was  said.  Aubrey  turned  at  once  to 
Alice  Gaddesden  and  proposed  a round  game.  He 
played  it  with  much  more  spirit  than  usual,  and 
Desmond’s  antics  in  ‘ Animal  Grab  ’ put  all  serious 
notions  to  flight. 

But  when  the  game  was  over,  and  Forest  brought 
in  the  candles,  Margaret  tried  to  get  some  informa- 
tion. 

‘You  found  the  father  reasonable?’  she  said 
to  her  brother  in  an  undertone,  as  they  stood  to- 
gether by  the  fire. 

‘ Oh,  yes,’  was  the  Indifferent  answer,  ‘ from  his 
own  point  of  view.’ 

And  when  he  had  lit  their  candles  for  his  sisters, 
he  excused  himself  at  once  on  the  ground  of  being 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 


77 

dog-tired  after  a long  day.  The  door  closed  upon 
him. 

The  family  gathered  together  in  a group,  while 
the  Rector  and  Elizabeth  talked  about  the  village 
at  the  further  end  of  the  room. 

‘ They’ve  quarrelled ! ’ said  Margaret  decisively, 

Alice  Gaddesden,  because  it  was  Margaret’s  opin- 
ion, disagreed.  There  was  nothing  to  show  it,  she 
said.  Aubrey  had  been  quite  calm.  Desmond  broke 
out,  ‘ Did  you  ever  see  Aubrey  anything  else  ? ’ 
Pamela  said  nothing,  but  she  slipped  out  to  tell 
Forest  about  the  pony-cart. 

Meanwhile  the  Rector  had  looked  at  his  watch, 
and  came  up  to  take  his  leave. 

‘ Has  the  Squire  gone  to  bed?  ’ he  said  cheerfully. 

‘ I daresay.  He  works  so  hard.  Give  him  my  fare- 
wells.’ 

And  he  went  off,  quite  aware,  both  from  his 
knowledge  of  the  family  and  of  the  Squire’s  recent 
actions,  that  there  were  storms  brewing  in  the  old 
house,  but  on  the  whole  thinking  more  of  the  new 
secretary  than  of  his  old  friends.  A charming 
woman ! — most  capable ! For  the  first  time  he  might 
get  some  attention  paid  to  the  village  people.  That 
child  with  the  shocking  bow-legs.  Poor  little  Pam- 
ela had  tried  to  do  her  best.  But  this  woman  would 
see  to  it;  she  knew  how  to  get  things  done. 

Meanwhile,  as  the  rest  of  the  party  dispersed. 
Forest  brought  a message  to  Elizabeth.  ‘ The  Squire 
would  be  glad  if  you  would  spare  him  a few  minutes, 
Miss,  in  the  library.  He  won’t  keep  you  long.’ 

Elizabeth  went  unwillingly. 

The  library  was  in  darkness,  except  for  one  small 
lamp  at  the  further  end,  and  the  Squire  was  walking 


78  ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 

up  and  down.  He  stopped  abruptly  as  he  saw  his 
secretary. 

‘ I won’t  keep  you,  Miss  Bremerton,  but  do  you 
happen  to  know  at  all  where  my  will  is?’ 

‘Your  will,  Mr.  Mannering?’  said  Elizabeth  in 
amazement.  ‘No,  indeed!  I have  never  seen  it.’ 

‘Well,  it’s  somewhere  here,’  said  the  Squire  im- 
patiently. ‘ I should  have  thought  in  all  your  rum- 
magings lately  you  must  have  come  across  it.  I 
took  it  away  from  those  ro’obers,  my  old  solicitors, 
and  I wasn’t  going  to  give  it  to  the  new  man — don’t 
trust  him  particularly  not  to  talk.  So  I locked  it 
up  here — somewhere.  And  I can’t  find  it.’  And 
he  began  restlessly  to  open  drawer  after  drawer, 
which  already  contained  piles  of  letters  and  docu- 
ments, neatly  and  systematically  arranged,  v/ith  the 
proper  dockets  and  sub-headings,  by  Elizabeth. 

‘ Oh,  it  can’t  be  there  I ’ cried  Elizabeth.  ‘ I know 
everything  in  those  drawer.^.  Surely  it  must  be  in 
the  office?’  By  which  she  meant  the  small  and 
hideously  untidy  room  on  the  ground  floor  into  which 
masses  of  papers  of  all  dates,  still  unsorted,  had 
been  carted  down  from  London. 

‘ It  isn’t  in  the  office  1 ’ He  was,  she  saw,  on  the 
brink  of  an  outburst.  ‘ I put  it  somewhere  in  this 
room  my  own  self ! And  I should  have  thought  by 
now  you  knew  the  geography  of  this  place  as  well 
as  I do ! ’ _ 

Elizabeth  raised  her  eyebrows,  but  said  nothing. 
The  big  room  indeed  was  still  full  to  her  of  unex- 
plored territory,  with  caches  of  all  kinds  in  it,  new 
and  ancient,  waiting  to  be  discovered.  She  looked 
round  her  in  perplexity,  not  knowing  where  to  begin. 
A large  part  of  the  room  was  walled  with  glass 
cases,  holding  vases,  bronzes,  and  other  small  an- 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 


79 

tiquities,  down  to  about  a yard  from  the  floor,  and 
the  space  below  being  filled  by  cupboards  and 
drawers.  Elizabeth  made  a vague  movement  to- 
wards a particular  set  of  cupboards  which  she  knew 
she  had  not  yet  touched,  but  the  Squire  irritably 
stopped  her. 

‘ It’s  certainly  not  there.  That  bit  of  the  room 
hasn’t  been  disturbed  since  the  Flood!  Now  those 
drawers  ’ — he  pointed — ‘ might  be  worth  looking 
at.’ 

She  hurried  towards  them.  But  the  Squire,  in- 
stead of  helping  her  in  her  search,  resumed  his  walk 
up  and  down,  muttering  to  himself.  As  for  her,  she 
was  on  the  verge  of  laughter,  the  laughter  that 
comes  from  nerves  and  fatigue;  for  she  had  had  a 
long  day’s  work  and  v/as  really  tired.  The  first 
drawer  she  opened  was  packed  with  papers,  a few 
arranged  in  something  like  order  by  her  predecessor, 
the  London  University  B.A.,  but  the  greater  part 
of  them  in  confusion.  They  mostly  related  to  a 
violent  controversy  between  the  Squire  and  various 
archaeological  experts  with  regard  to  some  finds  in 
the  Troad  a year  or  two  before  the  war,  in 
which  the  Squire  had  only  just  escaped  a serious 
libel  suit,  whereof  indeed  all  the  preliminaries  were 
in  the  drawer. 

On  the  very  top  of  the  drawer,  however,  was  a 
conveyance  of  a small  outlying  portion  of  the  Man- 
nering  estate,  which  the  Squire  had  sold  to  a neigh- 
bour only  a year  before  this  date.  Hopeless!  If 
that  vv^as  there,  anything  might  be  anywhere ! 

Was  she  to  spend  the  night  searching  for  the 
needle  in  this  bottle  of  hay?  Elizabeth’s  face  began 
to  twitch  with  uncomfortable  merriment.  Should  she 
go  and  knock  up  the  housekeeper  and  instal  her  as 


8o 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 

chaperon,  or  take  a stand,  and  insist  on  going  to 
bed  like  a reasonable  woman? 

She  hunted  through  three  drawers.  The  Squire 
meanwhile  paced  incessantly,  sometimes  muttering  to 
himself.  Every  time  he  came  within  the  circle  of 
lamplight  his  face  was  visible  to  Elizabeth,  wrinkled 
and  set,  with  angry  eyes;  and  she  saw  him  as  a 
person  possessed  by  a stubborn  demon  of  self-will. 
Once,  as  he  passed  her,  she  heard  him  say  to  him- 
self, ‘ Of  course  I can  write  another  at  once — half 
a sheet  will  do.’ 

She  replaced  the  third  drawer.  Was  the  Squire 
to  have  a monopoly  of  stubbornness?  She  thought 
not.  Waves  of  indefinite  but  strong  indignation 
were  beginning  to  sweep  through  her.  Why  was  the 
Squire  hunting  for  his  will?  What  had  he  been  say- 
ing to  his  son — his  son  who  bore  on  his  breast  and 
on  his  body  the  marks  of  his  country’s  service? 

She  rose  to  her  feet. 

‘I  can’t  find  anything,  Mr.  Mannering.  And  I 
think,  if  you  will  allow  me,  I will  go  to  bed.’ 

He  looked  at  her  darkly. 

‘ I see.  You  are  a person  who  stickles  for  your 
hours — you  won’t  do  anything  extra  for  me.’  There 
was  a sneer  in  his  tone. 

Elizabeth  felt  her  cheeks  suddenly  burn.  In  the 
dim  light  she  looked  amazingly  tall,  as  she  stood 
straightened  to  her  full  height,  confronting  this  man 
who  really  seemed  to  her  to  be  only  half  sane. 

‘ I think  I have  done  a great  deal  for  you,  Mr. 
Mannering.  But  if  you  don’t  think  so  w^e  had  better 
end  my  engagement ! ’ 

His  countenance  changed  at  once.  He  eagerly 
apologized.  He  was  perfectly  aware  of  her  extraor- 
dinary merits,  and  should  be  entirely  lost  without 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN  8i 

her  help.  The  fact  was  he  had  had  a painful  scene, 
and  was  overdone. 

Elizabeth  received  his  explanation  very  coldly, 
only  repeating,  ‘ May  I go  to  bed?  ’ 

The  Squire  drew  his  hand  across  his  eyes. 

‘ It  is  not  very  late — not  yet  eleven.’  He  pointed 
to  the  grandfather  clock  opposite.  ‘ If  you  will  only 
wait  while  I write  something?  ’ — he  pointed  to  a 
chair.  ‘ Just  take  a book  there,  and  give  me  a quar-* 
ter  of  an  hour,  no  more — I want  your  signature, 
that’s  ail.  We  won’t  look  any  further  for  the  will. 
I can  do  all  I want  by  a fresh  document.  I have 
been  thinking  it  over,  and  can  write  it  in  ten  minutes. 
I know  as  much  about  it  as  the  lawyers — more. 
Now  do  oblige  me.  I am  ashamed  of  my  dis« 
courtesy.  I need  not  say  that  I regard  you  as  in- 
dispensable— and — I think  I have  been  able  to  do 
something  for  your  Greek.’ 

He  smiled — a smile  that  was  like  a foam-flake  on 
a stormy  sea.  But  he  could  put  on  the  grand  man- 
ner when  he  chose,  and  Elizabeth  was  to  some  ex- 
tent propitiated.  After  all  he  and  his  ways  were 
no  longer  strange  to  her.  Very  unwillingly  she 
seated  herself  again,  and  he  went  rapidly  to  his 
writing-table. 

Then  silence  fell,  except  for  the  scratching  of 
the  Squire’s  pen.  Elizabeth  sat  pretending  to  read, 
but  in  truth  becoming  every  moment  the  prey  of 
increasing  disquiet.  What  was  he  going  to  ask  her 
to  sign?  She  knew  nothing  of  his  threat  to  his  eld- 
est son — nothing,  that  is,  clear  or  direct,  either  from 
himself  or  from  the  others;  but  she  guessed  a good 
deal.  It  was  impossible  to  live  even  for  a few  weeks 
in  close  contact  with  the  Squire  without  guessing 
at  most  things. 


82 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 


In  the  silence  she  became  aware  of  the  soft  autumn 
wind — October  had  just  begun — playing  with  a blind 
on  a distant  window.  And  through  the  window 
came  another  sound — Desmond  and  Pamela,  no 
doubt,  still  laughing  and  talking  in  the  schoolroom. 

The  Squire  rose  from  his  seat. 

‘ I shall  be  much  obliged,’  he  said  formally,  ‘ if 
you  will  kindly  come  here.  We  shall  want  another 
witness,  of  course.  I will  call  Forest.’ 

Elizabeth  approached,  but  paused  a yard  or  two 
from  him.  He  saw  her  in  the  light — her  gold  hair 
and  brilliant  dress  illuminated  against  the  dark  and 
splendid  background  of  the  Nike  in  shadow. 

She  spoke  with  hesitation. 

‘ I confess  I should  like  to  know,  Mr.  Mannering, 
what  it  is  you  are  asking  me  to  sign.’ 

‘ That  doesn’t  matter  to  a witness.  It  is  nothing 
which  will  in  any  way  compromise  you.’ 

‘ No — but  ’ — she  drew  herself  up — ‘ I should 
blame  myself  if  I made  it  easier  for  you  to  do  some- 
thing you  would  afterwards  regret.’ 

‘What  do  you  mean?’ 

She  summoned  all  her  courage. 

‘ Of  course  I must  know  something.  You  have 
not  kept  your  affairs  very  secret.  I guess  that  you 
are  angry  with  your  son,  v/ith  Major  Mannering. 
If  this  thing  you  ask  me  to  sign  is  to  hurt — to  injure 
him — if  it  is — well,  then — I refuse  to  sign  it!  ’ 

And  with  a sudden  movement  she  threw  both  her 
hands  behind  her  back  and  clasped  them  there. 

‘ You  refuse  ? ’ 

‘ If  you  admit  my  description  of  that  paper.’  She 
motioned  towards  it  as  it  lay  on  the  writing-table. 

‘ I have  no  objection  whatever  to  your  knowing 
what  it  is — as  you  seem  determined  to  know,’  he 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 


83 

said  sarcastically.  ‘ It  is  a codicil  revoking  my  will 
in  favour  of  my  eldest  son,  and  leaving  all  the  prop- 
erty of  which  I die  possessed,  and  which  is  in  my 
power  to  bequeath,  to  my  younger  son  Desmond. 
What  have  you  to  do  with  that?  What  possible 
responsibility  can  you  have?  ’ 

Elizabeth  wavered,  but  held  her  ground,  though 
in  evident  distress. 

‘ Only  that — if  I don’t  sign  it — you  would  have 
time  to  consider  it  again.  Mr.  Mannering — isn’t  it 
— isn’t  it — very  unjust?  ’ 

The  Squire  laughed. 

‘ How  do  you  know  that  in  refusing  you  are  not 
unjust  to  Desmond?’ 

‘ Oh  no ! ’ she  said  fervently.  ‘ Mr.  Desmond 
would  never  wish  to  supplant  his  brother — and  for 

such  a reason.  And  especially ’ she  paused. 

There  were  tears  rising  in  her  throat. 

‘Especially — what?  Upon  my  word,  you  claim 
a rather  remarkable  knowledge  of  my  family — in  six 
weeks ! ’ 

‘ I do  know  something  of  Desmond ! ’ Her  voice 
showed  her  agitation.  ‘ He  is  the  dearest,  the  most 
generous  boy.  In  a few  months  he  will  be  going 
out — he  will  be  saying  good-bye  to  you  all.’ 

‘ And  then  ? ’ 

‘ Is  this  a time  to  make  him  unhappy — to  send  him 
out  with  something  on  his  mind? — something  that 
might  even ’ 

‘ Well,  go  on ! ’ 

. ‘ Might  even  make  him  wish  ’ — her  voice  dropped 
— ‘ not  to  come  back.’ 

There  was  silence.  Then  the  Squire  violently 
threw  down  the  pen  he  was  holding  on  the  table  be- 
side him. 


84 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 


‘ Thank  you,  Miss  Bremerton.  That  will  do.  I 
bid  you  good-night ! ’ 

Elizabeth  did  not  wait  to  be  told  twice.  She 
turned  and  fled  down  the  whole  length  of  the  library. 
The  door  at  the  further  end  closed  upon  her. 

‘A  masterful  young  woman!’  said  the  Squire 
after  a moment,  drawing  a long  breath.  Then  he 
took  up  the  codicil,  thrust  it  into  a drawer  of  his 
writing-table,  lit  a cigarette,  and  walked  up  and  down 
smoking  it.  After  which  he  went  to  bed  and  slept 
remarkably  well. 

Elizabeth  cried  herself  to  sleep.  No  comforting 
sprite  whispered  to  her  that  she  had  won  the  first 
round  in  an  arduous  campaign.  On  the  contrary,  she 
fully  expected  dismissal  on  the  morrow. 


CHAPTER  V 


IT  was  a misty  but  warm  October  day,  and  a pleas- 
ant veiled  light  lay  on  the  pillared  front  of 
Chetworth  House,  designed  in  the  best  taste 
of  a fastidious  school.  The  surroundings  of  the 
house,  too,  were  as  perfect  as  those  of  Mannering 
were  slatternly  and  neglected.  All  the  young  men 
had  long  since  gone  from  the  gardens,  but  the  old 
labourers  and  the  girls  in  overalls  who  had  taken 
their  places,  under  the  eye  of  a white-haired  gar- 
dener, had  been  wonderfully  efficient  so  far.  Sir 
Henry  supposed  he  ought  to  have  let  the  lawns  stand 
for  hay,  and  the  hedges  go  undipped;  but  as  a 
matter  of  fact  the  lawns  had  never  been  smoother, 
or  the  creepers  and  yew  hedges  more  beautifully  in 
order,  so  that  even  the  greatest  patriot  fails  some- 
where. 

Beryl  Chicksands  was  walking  along  a stone- 
flagged  path  under  a yew  hedge,  from  which  she 
commanded  the  drive  and  a bit  of  the  road  outside. 
Every  now  and  then  she  stopped  to  peer  into  the 
sunlit  haze  that  marked  the  lower  slopes  of  the  park, 
and  the  delicate  hand  that  shaded  her  eyes  shook  a 
little. 

Aubrey  was  coming — and  she  was  going  seriously 
to  offer  to  give  him  up — to  try  to  persuade  him  in- 
deed to  break  it  off.  Since  her  first  agitated  letter 
to  him  begging  him  not  to  think  of  her,  but  to  decide 
only  what  was  best  for  his  own  future,  she  had  re- 
ceived a few  words  from  him. 

85 


86 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 


‘ Dearest  Beryl — Nothing  has  happened  to 
interfere  with  what  we  promised  each  other  last 
summer — nothing  at  all ! My  poor  father  seems  to 
be  half  out  of  his  mind  under  the  stress  of  war.  If 
he  does  what  he  threatens,  it  will  matter  very  little 
to  me;  but  of  course  you  must  consider  It  carefully, 
for  I shall  have  uncommonly  little  in  the  worldly 
way  to  offer  you.  Your  father  has  written  very 
kindly,  and  your  dear  little  note  is  just  like  you. 
But  you  must  consider. 

‘ I sometimes  doubt  whether  my  father  will  do 
what  he  threatens,  but  we  should  have  to  take  the 
risk.  Anyway  we  shall  meet  directly,  and  I am  al- 
ways, and  unalterably,  your  devoted 

‘ Aubrey.’ 

That  had  been  followed  by  a boyish  note  from 
Desmond — dear,  jolly  fellow! 

‘ My  father’s  clean  daft!  Don’t  bother,  my  dear 
Beryl.  If  he  tries  to  leave  me  this  funny  old  place, 
instead  of  Aubrey,  well,  there  are  two  can  play  at 
that  game.  I wouldn’t  touch  It  with  a barge-pole. 
You  and  A.  have  only  got  to  stick  it  a little,  and 
it’ll  be  all  right. 

‘ I’ve  given  him  a bit  of  my  mind  about  the  park 
and  the  farm.  He  stands  it  from  me  and  only  chaffs. 
That’s  because  he  always  treats  me  like  a baby. 

‘ Very  sorry  I can’t  come  on  Tuesday  with  Aubrey, 
but  there’s  some  good-bye  calls  I must  pay.  Hope 
Arthur  will  be  about.  I want  awfully  to  see  him. 
Hard  luck  his  being  hit  like  that,  after  all  the  rest. 
Snipers  are  beasts ! 

‘ P.  S. — You  can’t  think  what  a brainy  young 
^oman  father’s  got  for  his  new  secretary.  And 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN  87 

she’s  not  half  bad  either.  Pamela’s  rather  silly 
about  her,  but  she’ll  come  round.’ 

Beryl  paid  small  attention  to  the  postscript.  She 
had  heard  a good  deal  from  Pamela  about  the  new- 
comer, but  it  did  not  concern  her.  As  to  the  busi- 
ness aspect  of  the  Squire’s  behaviour,  Beryl  was 
well  aware  that  she  was  an  heiress.  Aubrey  would 
lose  nothing  financially  by  giving  up  the  Mannering 
estate  to  marry  her.  Personally  she  cared  nothing 
about  Mannering,  and  she  had  enough  for  both^ 
But  still  there  was  the  old  name  and  place.  How 
much  did  he  care  about  it?  how  much  would  he  re- 
gret it?  Supposing  his  extraordinary  father  really 
cut  him  off? 

Beryl  felt  she  did  not  know.  And  therewith  came 
the  recurrent  pang~how  little  she  really  knew  about 
the  man  to  whom  she  was  engaged!  She  adored 
him.  Every  fibre  in  her  slight  sensitive  body  still 
remembered  the  moment  when  he  first  kissed  her, 
when  she  first  felt  his  arm  about  her.  But  since — 
how  often  there  had  been  moments  when  she  had 
been  conscious  of  a great  distance  between  them^ — 
of  something  that  did  not  fit — that  jarred! 

For  herself,  she  could  never  remember  a time  since 
she  was  seventeen  v/hen  Aubrey  Mannering  had  not 
meant  more  to  her  than  any  one  else  in  the  world. 
On  his  first  departure  to  France,  she  had  said  good- 
bye to  him  with  secret  agonies  of  spirit,  which  no 
one  guessed  but  her  mother,  a colourless,  silent 
woman,  who  had  a way  of  knowing  unexpectedly 
much  of  the  people  about  her.  Then  when  he  was 
badly  wounded  in  some  fighting  near  Festubert,  in 
May  1915,  and  came  home  for  two  months’  leave, 
he  seemed  like  a stranger,  and  Beryl  had  not  Icnovm 


88 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 


what  to  be  at  with  him.  She  was  told  that  he  had 
suffered  very  much — it  had  been  a severe  thigh 
wound  implicating  the  sciatic  nerve — and  that  he 
had  been  once,  at  least,  very  near  to  death.  But 
when  she  tried  to  express  sympathy  with  what  he 
had  gone  through,  or  timidly  to  question  him  about 
It,  her  courage  fled,  her  voice  died  In  her  throat. 
There  was  something  unapproachable  in  her  old 
playfellow,  something  that  held  her,  and  indeed 
every  one  else,  at  bay. 

He  was  always  courteous,  and  mostly  cheerful. 
But  his  face  in  repose  had  an  absent,  haunted  look, 
the  eyes  alert  but  fixed  on  vacancy,  the  brow]  over- 
cast and  frowning.  In  the  old  days  Aubrey’s  smile 
had  been  his  best  natural  gift.  To  win  a smile  from 
him  In  her  childhood.  Beryl  would  have  done  any- 
thing— have  gone  on  her  knees  up  the  drive,  or 
offered  up  the  only  doll  she  cared  for,  or  gone  with- 
out jam  for  a week.  Now  when  he  came  home  in- 
valided, she  had  the  same  craving;  but  what  she 
craved  for  came  her  way  very  rarely.  He  would 
laugh  and  talk  with  her  as  with  other  people.  But 
that  exquisite  brightness  of  eye  and  lip,  which  seemed 
to  be  for  one  person  only,  and,  when  it  came,  to  lift 
that  person  to  the  seventh  heaven,  she  waited  for  in 
vain. 

Then  he  went  back  to  France,  and  in  due  course 
came  the  Somme.  Aubrey  Mannering  went  through 
the  whole  five  months  without  a scratch.  He  came 
back  with  a D.S.O.  and  a Staff  appointment  for  a 
short  Christmas  leave,  everybody,  except  his  father, 
turning  out  to  welcome  him  as  the  local  hero.  Then, 
for  a time,  he  went  to  Aldershot  as  the  head  of  an 
Officers’  School  there,  and  was  able  to  come  down 
occasionally  to  Chetworth  or  Mannering. 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN  89 

During  that  first  Christmas  leave  he  paid  several 
visits  to  Chetworth,  and  evidently  felt  at  home  there. 
To  Lady  Chicksands,  whom  most  people  regarded 
as  a tiresome  nonentity,  he  was  particularly  kind 
and  courteous.  It  seemed  to  give  him  positive 
pleasure  to  listen  to  her  garrulous  housekeeping  talk, 
or  to  hold  her  wool  for  her  while  she  wound  it. 
And  as  she,  poor  lady,  was  not  accustomed  to  such 
attention  from  brilliant  young  men,  his  three  days’ 
visit  was  to  her  a red-letter  time.  With  Sir  Henry 
also  he  was  on  excellent  terms,  and  made  just  as  ^ 
good  a listener  to  the  details  of  country  business  as 
to  Lady  Chicksands’  domestic  tales. 

And  yet  to  Beryl  he  was  in  some  ways  more  of 
a riddle  than  ever.  He  talked  curiously  little  about 
the  war — at  least  to  her.  He  had  a way  of  finding 
out,  both  at  Chicksands  and  Mannering,  men  who 
had  lost  sons  in  France,  and  when  he  and  Beryl  took 
a walk,  it  seemed  to  Beryl  as  though  they  were  con- 
stantly followed  by  friendly  furtive  looks  from  old 
labourers  who  passed  them  on  the  road,  and  nodded 
as  they  went  by.  But  when  the  daily  war  news  was 
being  discussed  he  had  a way  of  sitting  quite  silent, 
unless  his  opinion  was  definitely  asked.  When  it 
was,  he  would  answer,  generally  in  a rather  pessi- 
mistic spirit,  and  escape  the  conversation  as  soon  as 
he  could.  And  the  one  thing  that  roused  him  and 
put  him  out  of  temper  was  the  easy  complacent  talk 
of  people  who  were  sure  of  speedy  victory  and  talked 
of  ‘ knock-out  ’ blows. 

Then  six  months  later,  after  the  capture  of  the 
Messines  Ridge,  in  which  he  took  part,  he  reap- 
peared, and  finding  his  father,  apparently,  almost 
intolerable,  and  Pamela  and  Desmond  away,  he 
migrated  to  Chetworth.  And  there  he  and  Beryl 


90 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 


were  constantly  thrown  together.  He  never  talked 
to  her  with  much  intimacy;  he  certainly  never  made 
love  to  her.  But  suddenly  she  became  aware  that 
she  had  grown  very  necessary  to  him,  that  he  missed 
her  when  she  was  away,  that  his  eyes  lit  up  when 
she  came  back.  A special  relation  was  growing  up 
between  them.  Her  father  perceived  it;  so  did  her 
brother  Arthur;  and  they  had  both  done  their  best 
to  help  it  on.  They  were  both  very  fond  of  Aubrey; 
and  nothing  could  be  more  natural  than  that  she 
should  marry  one  who  had  been  her  neighbour  and 
playmate  from  childhood. 

The  thing  drifted  on,  and  one  day,  in  the  depths 
of  a summer  beechwood,  some  look  in  the  girl’s  eyes, 
some  note  of  tremulous  and  passionate  sweetness, 
beyond  her  control,  in  her  deep  quiet  voice,  touched 
something  irrepressible  in  him,  and  he  turned  to 
her  with  a face  of  intense,  almost  hungry  yearning, 
and  caught  her  hands — ‘ Dear — dearest  Beryl,  could 
you ? ’ 

The  words  broke  off,  but  her  eyes  spoke  in  reply 
to  his,  and  her  sudden  whiteness.  He  drew  her  to 
him,  and  folded  her  close. 

‘ I don’t  think  I ought  ’ — ^the  faltering,  broken 
voice  startled  her — ‘ I don’t  know  whether  I can 
make  you  happy.  Dear,  dear  little  Beryl ! ’ 

At  that  she  put  up  her  mouth  instinctively,  only 
to  shrink  back  under  the  energy  of  his  kiss.  Then 
they  had  walked  on  together,  hand  in  hand;  but  she 
remembered  that,  even  before  they  left  the  wood, 
something  seemed  to  have  dimmed  the  extraordinary 
bliss  of  the  first  moment — some  restlessness  in  him — 
some  touch  of  absent-mindedness,  as  though  he 
grudged  himself  his  own  happiness. 

And  so  it  had  been  ever  since.  He  had  resumed 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 


91 


his  work  at  Aldershot,  and  owing  to  certain  conse- 
quences of  the  wound  in  1915  was  not  likely,  in  spite 
of  desperate  efforts  on  his  own  part,  to  be  sent  back 
to  the  front.  His  letters  varied  just  as  his  presence 
did.  Something  always  seemed  to  be  kept  back 
from  her — was  always  beyond  her  reach.  Sometimes 
she  supposed  she  was  not  clever  enough,  that  he 
found  her  inadequate  and  irresponsive.  Sometimes, 
with  a sudden,  half-guilty  sense  of  disloyalty  to  him, 
she  vaguely  wondered  whether  there  was  some  secret 
in  his  life — some  past  of  which  she  knew  nothing. 
How  could  there  be?  A man  of  stainless  and  bril- 
liant reputation — modest,  able,  foolhardily  brave, 
of  whom  ail  men  spoke  warmly;  of  a sensitive  refine- 
ment too,  which  made  it  impossible  to  think  of  any 
ordinary  vulgar  skeleton  in  the  background  of  his 
life. 

Yet  her  misgivings  had  grown  and  grown  upon 
her,  till  now  they  were  morbidly  strong.  She  did  not 
satisfy  him;  she  was  not  making  him  happy;  it 
would  be  better  for  her  to  set  him  free.  This  ac- 
tion of  his  father’s  offered  the  opportunity.  But 
as  she  thought  of  doing  it — how  she  would  do  it, 
and  how  he  might  possibly  accept  it — she  was  torn 
with  misery. 

She  and  her  girl-friend  Pamela  were  very  differ- 
ent. She  was  the  elder  by  a couple  of  years,  and 
much  more  mature.  But  Pamela’s  undeveloped 
powers,  the  flashes  of  daring,  of  romance,  in  the 
awkward  reserved  girl,  the  suggestion  in  her  of  a 
big  and  splendid  flowering,  fascinated  Beryl,  and  in 
her  humility  she  never  dreamt  that  she,  with 
her  delicate  pensiveness,  the  mingled  subtlety  and 
purity  of  her  nature,  was  no  less  exceptional.  She 
had  been  brought  up  very  much  alone.  Her  mother 


92 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 


was  no  companion  for  her,  and  the  brother  nearest 
her  own  age  and  nearest  her  heart  had  been  killed  at 
the  opening  of  the  war.  Arthur  and  she  were  very 
good  friends,  but  not  altogether  congenial.  She  was 
rather  afraid  of  him — of  his  critical  temper,  and 
his  abrupt  intolerant  way,  with  people  or  opinions 
he  disliked.  Beryl  was  quite  aware  of  his  effect  on 
Pamela  Mannering,  and  It  made  her  anxious.  For 
she  saw  little  chance  for  Pamela.  Before  the  war, 
Arthur  in  London  had  been  very  much  sought  after, 
in  a world  where  women  are  generally  good-looking, 
and  skilled  besides  in  all  the  arts  of  pursuit.  His 
standards  were  ridiculously  high.  His  women 
friends  were  many  and  of  the  best.  Why  should  he 
be  attracted  by  anything  so  young  and  immature  as 
Pamela  ? 

At  last ! A pony-cart  coming  up  from  the  lodge, 
with  two  figures  in  it — Aubrey  and  Pamela.  So 
poor  Pam  had  at  last  got  hold  of  something  In  the 
nature  of  an  animal! 

Beryl  gripped  the  balustrading  which  bordered 
one  side  of  the  path,  and  stood  watching  Intently — 
a slender  creature,  in  a broad  purple  hat,  shading 
her  small,  distinguished  face. 

Presently,  as  the  visitors  approached  the  house, 
she  waved  to  them,  and  they  to  her.  They  disap- 
peared from  view  for  a minute.  Then  a man’s 
figure  emerged  alone  from  a garden  door  opening 
on  the  flagged  path. 

He  came  towards  He-f  with  outstretched  hands, 
looked  round  him  smiling  to  see  that  no  one  was  in 
sight,  and  then  kissed  her.  Beryl  knew  she  ought  to 
have  resisted  the  kiss;  she  had  meant  to  do  it;  but 
all  the  same  she  submitted. 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 


93 

‘ Your  father  met  us  at  the  door.  Arthur  has 
carried  Pamela  off  somewhere.  Very  sporting  of 
them,  wasn’t  it?  So  I’ve  got  you  alone!  How  nice 
you  look!  And  what  a jolly  place  this  is!  ’ 

He  first  looked  her  up  and  down  with  admiring 
eyes,  and  then  made  a gesture  towards  the  beautiful 
modern  house,  and  the  equally  beautiful  and  modern 
gardens  in  which  it  stood,  with  their  still  unspoilt 
autumn  flowers,  their  cunning  devices  in  steps  and 
fountains  and  pergolas. 

‘ How  on  earth  do  you  keep  it  so  trim?  ’ He  put 
a hand  through  her  arm,  and  drew  her  on  towards 
the  wood-walk  which  opened  beyond  the  formal  gar- 
den and  the  lawn. 

‘ With  two  or  three  old  men,  and  two  girls  from 
the  village,’  said  Beryl.  ‘ Father  doesn’t  mind  what 
he  gives  up  so  long  as  it  isn’t  the  garden.’ 

‘ It’s  his  pet  vice ! ’ laughed  Aubrey — ‘ his  public- 
house,  like  my  father’s  Greek  pots.  I say — ^you’ve 
heard  of  the  secretary?’ 

It  seemed  to  Beryl  that  he  was  fencing  with  her 
— delaying  their  real  talk.  But  she  accepted  his 
lead. 

‘ Yes,  Desmond  seems  to  like  her.  I don’t  gather 
that  Pamela  cares  very  much  about  her.’ 

‘ Oh,  Pamela  takes  time.  But  what  do  you  think 
the  secretary  did  last  night?  ’ 

‘What?’  They  had  paused  under  a group  of 
limes  clad  in  a glory  of  yellow  leaf,  and  she  was 
looking  up  in  surprise  at  the  unusual  animation 
playing  over  the  features  of  the  man  beside 
her. 

‘ She  refused  to  sign  a codicil  to  my  father’s  will, 
disinheriting  me,  and  came  to  tell  me  so  this  morn- 
ing! You  should  have  heard  her!  Very  formal 


94 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 


and  ceremonious — very  much  on  her  dignity!  But 
such  a brick  I ’ 

Mannering’s  deep-set  eyes  under  his  lined  think- 
er’s brow  shone  with  amusement.  Beryl,  with  the 
instinctive  jealousy  of  a girl  in  love,  was  conscious 
of  a sudden  annoyance  that  Miss  Bremerton  should 
have  been  mixed  up  in  Aubrey’s  personal  affairs. 

‘What  do  you  mean?’ 

Aubrey  put  an  arm  round  her  shoulder.  She  knew 
she  ought  to  shake  it  off,  but  the  pressure  of  it  was 
too  welcome.  They  strolled  on. 

‘ I had  my  talk  with  father  last  night.  I told  him 
he  was  absurd,  and  I was  my  own  master.  That  you 
were  perfectly  free  to  give  me  up — that  I had  begged 
you  to  consider  it — but  I didn’t  think  you  would,’ 
he  smiled  down  upon  her,  but  more  gravely;  ‘and 
failing  dismissal  from  you,  we  should  be  married  as 
soon  as  it  was  reasonably  possible.  Was  that  right, 
darling?  ’ 

She  evaded  the  question. 

‘ Well — and  then?  ’ 

‘ Then  he  broke  out.  Sir  Henry  of  course  was 
the  bete  noire.  You  can  imagine  the  kind  of  things 
he  said,  I needn’t  repeat  them.  He  is  in  a mood  of 
perfectly  mad  opposition  to  all  this  war  legislation, 
and  it  is  not  the  least  good  arguing  with  him.  Fi- 
nally he  told  me  that  my  allowance  would  be 
stopped,  and  Mannering  would  be  left  to  Desmond, 
if  we  married.  “All  right!”  I said,  “I  daresay, 
if  he  and  I survive  you,  Desmond  will  let  me  look 
round  sometimes.”  Not  very  respectful,  perhaps, 
but  by  that  time  I was  fed  up.  So  then  I wished 
him  good-night,  and  went  back  to  the  drawing-room. 
In  a few  minutes  he  sent  for  Miss  Bremerton — no- 
body knew  why.  I was  dog-tired,  and  went  to  bed, 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 


95 

and  didn’t  I sleep ! — nine  good  hours.  Then  this 
morning,  just  after  breakfast,  when  I was  strolling 
in  the  garden  with  a cigarette  waiting  for  Pamela, 
who  should  come  out  but  Miss  Bremerton!  Have 
you  seen  her?  ’ 

‘ Only  in  the  distance.’ 

‘ Well,  she’s  really  a very  fine  creature,  not  pretty 
exactly^—oh,  not  pretty  at  all — but  Vv^onderfully  well 
set  up,  with  beautiful  hair,  and  a general  look  of — 
what  shall  I say? — dignity,  refinement,  knowing  her 
own  mind.  You  feel  she  would  set  you  down  in  a 
moment  if  you  took  the  smallest  liberty.  I could 
not  think  what  she  wanted.  But  she  came  up  to  me 
— of  course  we  had  made  acquaintance  the  night 
before — May  I speak  to  you,  Major  Mannering? 
I wish  to  say  something  private.  Shall  we  walk 
down  to  the  kitchen  garden?”  So  we  walked 
down  to  the  kitchen  garden,  and  then  she  told  me 
what  had  happened  after  dinner,  when  my  father 
sent  for  her.  She  told  it  very  stiffly,  rather  curtly 
in  fact,  as  though  she  were  annoyed  to  have  to 
bother  about  such  unprofessional  things,  and  hated 
to  waste  her  time.  “But  I don’t  wish,  I don’t  in- 
tend,” she  said,  “ to  have  the  smallest  responsibility 
in  the  matter.  So  after  thinking  it  over,  I decided 
to  inform  you — and  Mr.  Desmond  too,  if  you  will 
kindly  tell  him — as  to  what  I had  done.  That  is 
all  I have  to  say,”  with  her  chin  very  much  in  the 
air!  “ I did  it,  of  course,  because  I did  not  care  to 
be  mixed  up  in  any  private  or  family  affairs.  That 
is  not  my  business.”  I was  taken  aback,  as  you  can 
imagine  1 But,  of  course,  I thanked  her ’ 

‘ Why,  she  couldn’t  have  done  anything  else  1 ’ 
said  Beryl  with  vivacity. 

‘ I don’t  know  that.  Anybody  may  witness  any- 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 


96 

thing.  But  she  seems  to  have  guessed.  Of  course 
my  father  never  keeps  anything  to  himself.  Any- 
way she  didn’t  like  being  thanked  at  all.  She  turned 
back  to  the  house  at  once.  So  then  I asked  her  if 
she  knew  what  had  happened  to  the  precious  codicil. 
And  she  flushed  up  and  said,  with  the  manner  of  an 
icicle,  “ Mr.  Mannering  sent  me  to  the  drawer  this 
morning,  where  he  had  put  it  away.  It  was  lying 
on  the  top,  and  I saw  it.”  “ Signed?  ” I said.  “No, 
not  signed.”  Then  she  began  to  hurry,  and  I 
thought  I had  offended  her  in  some  way.  But  it 
dawned  upon  me,  presently,  that  she  was  really  torn 
between  her  feeling  of  chivalry  towards  me — she 
seems  to  have  a kindness  for  soldiers!  her  brother 
is  fighting  somewhere — and  her  professional  obliga- 
tions towards  my  father.  Wasn’t  it  odd?  She  hated 
to  be  indiscreet,  to  give  him  away,  and  yet  she  could 
not  help  it!  I believe  she  had  been  awake  half  the 
night.  Her  eyes  looked  like  it.  I must  say  I liked 
her  very  much.  A woman  of  a great  deal  of 
character!  I expect  she  has  a rough  time  of  it!’ 

‘ But  of  course,’  said  Beryl,  ‘ it  may  be  all  signed 
and  witnessed  by  now!  ’ 

‘Most  probably!’  The  Major  laughed.  ‘But 
she  did  her  best  anyway,  and  I shan’t  ask  her  any 
more  questions.  We  had  better  take  it  for  granted. 
My  father  is  as  obstinate  as  they  make  ’em.  Well 
now,  dear  Beryl,  have  you — have  you  thought  it 
over? ’ 

He  pointed  to  a seat,  and  sat  down  by  her.  The 
brightness  of  his  look  had  passed  away.  The  thin, 
intellectual  face  and  lined  brow  had  resumed  the 
expression  that  was  familiar  to  Beryl.  It  was  an 
expression  of  fatigue — not  physical  now,  for  he  had 
clearly  recovered  his  health,  but  moral;  as  though 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 


97 

the  man  behind  it  were  worn  out  by  some  hidden 
debate  with  his  own  mind,  into  which  he  fell  perpet- 
ually, when  left  to  himself.  It  was  the  look  which 
divided  him  from  her. 

‘ Yes,’  she  said  slowly,  ‘ I’ve  been  thinking  a great 
deal.’  She  stopped;  then  lifting  her  eyes,  which 
were  grey  and  fringed  with  dark  lashes — beautiful 
eyes,  timid  yet  passionately  honest — she  said,  ‘ You’d 
better  give  me  up,  Aubrey!  ’ 

He  made  a restless  movement,  then  took  her 
hands  and  raised  them  to  his  lips. 

‘ I don’t  feel  like  it!  ’ he  said,  smiling.  ‘ Tell  me 
what  you  mean.’ 

She  looked  down,  plucking  at  the  fringed  belt  of 
her  sports  coat.  Her  lips  trembled  a little. 

‘ I don’t  think,  Aubrey,  I can  make  you  happy ! 
I’ve  been  feeling  often — that  I don’t  seem  to  make 
much  difference  to  you.  And  now  this  is  very  seri- 
ous^ — giving  up  Mannering.  You  may  mind  it  much 
more  than  you  think.  And  if ’ 

‘ If  what?  Go  on ! ’ 

She  raised  her  eyes  again  and  looked  at  him 
straight. 

‘ If  I can’t  make  up?  ’ 

The  colour  flooded  into  his  face,  as  though,  far 
within,  something  stirred  ‘ like  a guilty  thing  sur- 
prised.’ But  he  said  tenderly: 

‘ I don’t  care  that,  Beryl  ’ — he  snapped  his  fingers 
— ‘ for  Mannering  in  comparison  with  you.’ 

Her  breath  fluttered  a little,  but  she  went  on  reso- 
lutely. ‘ But  I must  say  it — I must  tell  you  what  I 
feel.  It  seems  the  right  opportunity.  So  often, 
Aubrey,  I don’t  seem  to  understand  you ! I say  the 
wrong  thing.  I’m  not  clever.  I haven’t  any  deep 
thoughts — like  you  or  Arthur.  It  would  be  terrible 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 


98 

if  you  married  me,  and  then — I felt  you  were  dis- 
appointed.’ 

He  moved  a little  away  from  her  and,  propping 
his  chin  on  his  hands,  looked  gravely  through  the 
thinning  branches  of  the  wood. 

‘ I wonder  why  you  say  that — I wonder  what  Eve 
done ! ’ 

‘Oh,  you’ve  done  nothing!’  cried  Beryl.  ‘It’s 
only  I feel — sometimes — that — that  you  don’t  let  me 
know  things — -share  things.  You  seem  sometimes  so 
sad — and  I can’t  be  any  help — you  won’t  let  me  I 
That’s  what  I mind  so  much — so  dreadfully!  ’ 

He  was  silent  a moment.  Then  without  any  at- 
tempt at  caresses,  he  said,  ‘ I wonder.  Beryl,  whether 
you — whether  you — ever  realize — what  we  soldiers 
have  seen?  No! — ^thank  God! — you  don’t — ^you 
can’t.’ 

She  pressed  her  hands  to  her  eyes,  and  shud- 
dered. 

‘ No,  of  course  I can’t — of  course  I can’t!  ’ she 
said  passionately. 

Then,  while  her  eyes  were  still  hidden,  there 
passed  through  his  worn  features  a sharp  spasm, 
as  of  some  uncontrollable  anguish — passed  and  was 
gone. 

He  turned  towards  her,  and  she  looked  up.  If 
ever  love,  all-giving,  self-forgetting,  w'as  written  on 
a girl’s  face,  it  was  written  on  Beryl’s  then.  Her 
wild-rose  colour  came  and  went;  her  eyes  were  full 
of  tears.  She  had  honestly  made  her  attempt,  but 
she  could  not  carry  it  through,  and  he  saw  it.  Some 
vague  hope — of  which  he  was  ashamed — died  away. 
Profoundly  touched,  he  put  out  his  arms,  and  mak- 
ing nothing  of  her  slight  resistance,  gathered  her 
close  to  him. 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 


99 


‘ Did  you  ever  read  Sintram,  Beryl?  ’ 

‘ Yes,  years  ago.’ 

‘ Do  you  remember  his  black  fits — hov/  they  came 
upon  him  unexpectedly — and  only  Verena  could 
help  him?  It’s  like  that  with  me  sometimes.  Things 
I’ve  seen — horrible  sufferings  and  death — come  back 
on  me.  I can’t  get  over  it — at  least  not  yet.  But 
I’ll  never  let  it  come  really  between  us.  And  per- 
haps— some  day  ’ — he  hesitated  and  his  voice 
dropped — ‘ you  shall  help  me — like  Verena  ! ’ 

She  clung  to  him,  not  knowing  what  he  meant,  but 
fascinated  by  his  deep  voice,  and  the  warm  shelter 
of  his  arms.  He  bent  down  to  kiss  her,  in  the  most 
passionate  embrace  he  had  ever  given  her. 

Then  he  released  her,  and  they  both  looked  at 
each  other  with  a new  shyness. 

‘ So  that’s  all  right!  ’ he  said,  smiling.  ‘ You  see 
you  can’t  drop  me  as  easily  as  you  think.  I stick! 
Well,  now,  you  take  me  as  a pauper — not  exactly  a 
pauper — but  still — I’ve  got  to  settle  things  with  your 
father,  though ! ’ 

Beryl  proposed  that  they  should  go  and  look  for 
the  others. 

They  went  hand  in  hand. 

Sir  Henry  meanwhile  was  engaged  in  the  con- 
genial occupation  of  inspecting  and  showing  his 
kitchen  gardens.  His  son  Arthur  and  Pamela  Man- 
nering  were  following  him  round  the  greenhouses, 
finding  more  amusement  in  the  perplexities  of  Sir 
Henry’s  conscience  than  Interest  in  the  show  itself. 

‘ You  see  they’ve  brought  in  the  chrysanthemums. 
Just  in  time!  There  was  a frost  last  night,’  said  Sir 
Henry,  throwing  open  a door,  and  disclosing  a 
greenhouse  packed  with  chrysanthemums  in  bud. 


100 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 


‘ My  hat — what  a show!  ’ said  his  son. 

‘ Not  at  all,  Arthur,  not  at  all,’  said  his  father, 
annoyed.  ‘ Not  a third  of  what  we  had  last  year.’ 

Arthur  raised  his  eyebrows,  and  behind  his 
father’s  back  he  and  Pamela  exchanged  smiles.  The 
next  house  showed  a couple  of  elderly  men  at  work 
pruning  roses  intended  to  flower  in  February  and 
March. 

‘ This  is  almost  my  favourite  house,’  exclaimed 
Sir  Henry.  ‘ Such  a wonderful  result  for  so  little 
labour  I ’ He  strolled  on  complacently. 

‘ How  long  does  this  take  you.  Grimes?  ’ Arthur 
inquired  discreetly  of  one  of  the  gardeners. 

‘ Oh,  a good  while,  Mr.  Arthur — what  with  the 
pruning,  and  the  syringing,  and  the  manuring,’  said 
the  man  addressed,  stopping  to  wipe  his  brow,  for 
the  day  was  mild. 

Arthur’s  look  darkened  a little.  He  fell  into  a 
reverie,  while  Pamela  was  conscious  at  every  step 
of  his  tall  commanding  presence,  of  the  Military 
Cross  on  his  khaki  breast,  and  the  pleasant,  pene- 
trating eyes  under  his  staff  cap.  Arthur,  she  thought, 
must  be  now  over  thirty.  Before  his  recent  wound 
he  had  been  doing  some  special  artillery  work  on 
the  Staff  of  an  Army  Corps,  and  was  a very  rising 
soldier.  He  was  now  chafing  hotly  against  the  rul- 
ing of  his  Medical  Board,  who  were  insisting  that  he 
was  not  yet  fit  to  go  back  to  France. 

Pamela  meanwhile  was  going  through  moments  of 
disillusion.  After  these  two  years  she  had  looked 
forward  to  the  meeting  with  such  eagerness,  such 
hidden  emotion  1 And  now — what  was  there  to  have 
been  eager  about?  They  seemed  to  be  talking  al- 
most as  strangers.  The  soreness  of  it  bewildered 
her. 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 


lOI 


Presently,  as  they  were  walking  back  to  the  house, 
leaving  Sir  Henry  in  anxious  consultation  over  the 
mushroom-house  with  the  grey-haired  head  gardener, 
her  companion  turned  to  her  abruptly. 

‘ I suppose  that’s  all  right ! ’ He  pointed  to  some 
distant  figures  on  the  fringe  of  a wood. 

‘ Beryl  and  Aubrey?  Yes — if  Aubrey  can  make 
her  see  that  she  isn’t  doing  him  any  harm  by  letting 
him  go  on.’ 

‘ Good  heavens ! how  could  she  do  him  any 
harm?  ’ 

‘ Well,  there’s  Mannering.  As  if  that  mattered!  ’ 
said  the  girl  scornfully.  ‘ And  then — Beryl’s  too 
dreadfully  humble  I ’ 

‘Humble!  About  what?  No  girl  ought  to  be 
humble — ever ! ’ 

Pamela’s  eyes  recovered  their  natural  brilliance 
under  his  peremptory  look.  And  he,  who  had  be- 
gun the  walk  with  no  particular  consciousness  at  all 
about  his  companion,  except  that  she  was  a nice, 
good-looking  child,  whom  he  had  known  from  a 
baby,  with  equal  suddenness  became  aware  of  her 
in  a new  way. 

‘ Why  shouldn’t  we  be  humble,  please?  ’ she  said, 
with  a laugh. 

‘ Because  it’s  monstrous  that  you  should.  Leave 
that  to  us ! ’ 

‘ There  wouldn’t  be  much  of  it  about,  if  we  did!  ’ 
The  red  danced  in  her  cheek. 

‘ Much  humility?  Oh,  you’re  quite  mistaken.  Men 
are  much  more  humble  than  you  think.  But  we’re 
human,  of  course.  If  you  tempt  us,  you  soon  put 
the  starch  into  us.’ 

‘ Well,  you  must  starch  Beryl!  ’ said  Pamela^  with 
emphasis.  ‘ She  will  think  and  say  tliat  she’s  not 


102 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 


worthy  of  Aubrey,  that  she  knows  she’ll  disappoint 
him,  that  she  wouldn’t  mind  his  giving  up  Manner- 
ing  If  only  she  were  sure  she  could  make  him  happy 
— and  heaps  of  things  like  that!  I’m  sure  she’s 
saying  them  now ! ’ 

‘ I never  heard  such  nonsense  in  my  life ! ’ The 
masculine  face  beside  her  was  all  impatience.  ‘ One 
can’t  exactly  boast  about  one’s  sister,  but  you  and  I 
know  very  well  what  Beryl  Is  worth  I ’ 

Pamela  agreed  fervently.  ‘ Besides,  Desmond 
would  give  it  back.’ 

‘ Hm — ’ her  companion  demurred.  ‘ Giving 
back  isn’t  always  easy.  As  to  pounds,  shillings,  and 
pence,  if  one  must  talk  of  them,  it’s  lucky  that  Beryl 
has  her  “ bit.”  But  I shouldn’t  wonder  if  your 
father  thought  better  of  it  after  all.’ 

Pamela  flushed  Indignantly. 

‘ He  all  but  signed  a codicil  to  his  will  last  night! 
He’s  in  a tearing  hurry  about  it.  He  called  in  Miss 
Bremerton  and  wanted  her  to  witness  it.  And  she 
refused.  So  father  threw  it  Into  a drawer,  and 
nobody  knows  what  has  happened.’ 

‘Miss  Bremerton?  The  new  secretary?’  The 
tone  expressed  both  amusement  and  curiosity.  ‘ Ah! 
I hear  all  sorts  of  Interesting  things  about  her.’ 

Pamela  straightened  her  shoulders  defiantly. 

‘ Of  course  she’s  Interesting.  She’s  terribly  clever 
and  up  to  date,  and  all  the  rest  of  It.  She’s  begin- 
ning to  boss  father,  and  very  soon  she’ll  boss  all  the 
rest  of  us.’ 

‘Perhaps  you  vv^anted  It!’  said  Captain  Chick- 
sands,  smiling. 

‘ Perhaps  we  did,’  Pamela  admitted.  ‘ But  one 
needn’t  like  It  all  the  same.  Well,  she’s  rationed  us 
— ^that’s  one  good  thing — and  father  really  doesn’t 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 


103 


guess!  And  now  she’s  begun  to  take  an  interest  in 
the  farms  1 I believe  she’s  walked  over  to  the  Holme 
Wood  farm  to-day,  to  see  for  herself  what  state  it’s 
in.  Father’s  in  town.  And  she’s  trying  hard  to  keep 
father  out  of  a horrible  row  with  the  County  Com- 
mittee.’ 

‘About  ploughing  up  the  park?’ 

Pamela  nodded. 

‘ Plucky  woman  I ’ said  Arthur  Chicksands  heart- 
ily. ‘ I’m  sure  you  help  her,  Pamela,  all  you  can?  ’ 

‘ I don’t  like  being  managed,’  said  the  girl  stub- 
bornly, rather  resenting  his  tone. 

A slight  shade  of  sternness  crossed  the  soldier’s 
face. 

‘ You  know  it’s  no  good  playing  with  this  war,’ 
he  said  drily.  ‘ It’s  as  much  to  be  won  here  as  it 
is  over  seas.  Food! — that’ll  be  the  last  word  for 
everybody.  And  it’s  women’s  work  as  much  as 
men’s.’ 

She  saw  that  she  had  jarred  on  him.  But  an  odd 
jealousy — or  perhaps  her  hidden  disappointment — 
drove  her  on. 

‘ Yes,  but  one  doesn’t  like  strangers  interfering,’ 
she  said  childishly. 

The  soldier  threw  her  a side-glance,  while  his  lip 
twitched  a little.  So  this  was  Pamela — grown-up. 
She  seemed  to  him  rather  foolish — and  very  lovely. 
There  was  no  doubt  about  that  I She  was  going  to 
be  a beauty,  and  of  a remarkable  type.  He  himself 
was  a strong,  high-minded,  capable  fellow,  with  an 
instinctive  interest  in  women,  and  a natural  aptitude 
for  making  friends  with  them.  He  was  inclined, 
always,  to  try  and  set  them  in  the  right  way ; to  help 
them  to  some  of  the  mental  training  which  men  got 
in  a hundred  ways,  and  women,  as  it  seemed  to  him. 


104 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 


were  often  so  deplorably  without.  But  this  school- 
master function  only  attracted  him  when  there  was 
opposition.  He  had  been  quite  sincere  in  denounc- 
ing humility  in  women.  It  never  failed  to  warn  him 
ofh 

‘ Do  you  think  she  really  wants  to  interfere?  ’ he 
asked,  smiling.  ‘ I expect  it’s  only  that  she’s  got  a 
bit  of  an  organizing  gift — like  the  women  who  have 
been  doing  such  fine  things  in  the  war.’ 

‘ There’s  no  chance  for  me  to  do  fine  things  in 
the  war,’  said  Pamela  bitterly. 

‘Take  up  the  land,  and  see!  Suppose  you  and 
Miss  Bremerton  could  pull  the  estate  together!’ 

Pamela’s  eyes  scoffed. 

‘ Father  would  never  let  me.  No,  I think  some- 
times I shall  run  away!  ’ 

He  lifted  his  eyebrows,  and  she  was  annoyed  with 
him  for  taking  her  remark  as  mere  bluff. 

‘ You’ll  see,’  she  insisted.  ‘ I shall  do  something 
desperate.’ 

‘ I wouldn’t,’  he  said,  quietly.  ‘ Make  friends  with 
Miss  Bremerton  and  help  her.’ 

‘ I don’t  like  her  enough,’  she  said,  drawing  quick 
breath. 

He  saw  now  she  was  in  a mood  to  quarrel  with 
him  outright.  But  he  didn’t  mean  to  let  her.  With 
those  eyes — in  such  a fire — she  was  really  splendid. 
How  she  had  come  on! 

‘ I’m  sorry,’  he  said  mildly.  ‘ Because,  you  know 
— If  you  don’t  mind  my  saying  so — it’ll  really  take 
the  two  of  you  to  keep  your  father  out  of  gaol.  The 
Government’s  absolutely  determined  about  this  thing 
— they  can’t  afford  to  be  anything  else.  We'rt  be- 
ing hammered,  and  gassed,  and  blown  to  pieces  over 
there  ’ — he  pointed  eastward.  ‘ It’s  the  least  the 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN  105 

people  over  here  can  do — to  play  up — isn’t  it?’ 
Then  he  laughed.  ‘ But  I mustn’t  be  setting  you 
against  your  father.  I didn’t  mean  to.’ 

Pamela  shrugged  her  shoulders,  in  silence.  She 
really  longed  to  ask  him  about  his  wound,  his  staff 
work,  a thousand  things ; but  they  didn’t  seem,  some- 
how, to  be  intimate  enough,  to  be  hitting  it  off 
enough.  This  meeting,  which  had  been  to  her  a 
point  of  romance  in  the  distance,  was  turning  out 
to  be  just  nothing — only  disappointment.  She  was 
glad  to  see  how  quickly  the  other  pair  were  coming 
towards  them,  and  at  the  same  time  bitterly  vexed 
that  her  tete-h-tete  with  Arthur  was  at  an  end. 


CHAPTER  VI 


Meanwhile  Elizabeth  Bremerton  was  sit- 
ting pensive  on  a hill-side  about  mid-way  be- 
tween Mannering  and  Chetworth.  She  had  a 
bunch  of  autumn  berries  in  her  hands.  Tier  tweed 
skirt  and  country  boots  showed  traces  of  mud  much 
deeper  than  anything  on  the  high  road;  her  dress 
was  covered  with  bits  of  bramble,  dead  leaves,  and 
thistledown;  and  her  bright  gold  hair  had  been 
pulled  here  and  there  out  of  its  neat  coils,  as  though 
she  had  been  pushing  through  hedges  or  groping 
through  woods. 

‘ It’s  perfectly  monstrous!  * she  was  thinking.  ‘ It 
oughtn’t  to  be  allowed.  And  when  we’re  properly 
civilized,  it  won’t  be  allowed.  No  one  ought  to  be 
free  to  ruin  his  land  as  he  pleases ! It  concerns  the 
State.  “ Manage  your  land  decently — produce  a 
proper  amount  of  food — or  out  you  go ! ” And  I 
wouldn’t  have  waited  for  war  to  say  it ! Ugh ! that 
place ! ’ 

And  she  thought  with  disgust  of  the  choked  and 
derelict  fields,  the  ruined  gates  and  fences,  the  de- 
serted buildings  she  had  just  been  wandering 
through.  After  the  death  of  an  old  miser,  who, 
according  to  the  tale  she  had  heaird  in  a neighbouring 
village,  had  lived  there  for  forty  years,  with  a de- 
crepit wife,  both  of  them  horribly  neglected  and 
dirty,  and  making  latterly  no  attempt  to  work  the 
farm,  a new  tenant  had  appeared  who  would  have 
taken  the  place,  if  the  Squire  would  have  rebuilt  the 
house  and  steadings,  and  allowed  a reasonable  sum 

io6 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 


107 

for  the  cleansing  and  recovering  of  the  land.  But 
the  Squire  would  do  nothing  of  the  kind.  He  ‘ hadn’t 
a farthing  to  spend  on  expensive  repairs,’  and  if  the 
new  tenant  wouldn’t  take  the  farm  on  the  old  terms, 
well,  he  might  leave  it  alone. 

The  place  had  just  been  investigated  by  the  County 
Committee,  and  a peremptory  order  had  been  is- 
sued. What  was  the  Squire  going  to  do? 

Elizabeth  fell  to  thinking  what  ought  to  be  done 
with  the  Squire’s  twelve  thousand  acres,  if  the  Squire 
were  a reasonable  man.  It  v/as  exasperating  to  her 
practical  sense  to  see  a piece  of  business  in  such  a 
muddle.  As  a child  and  growing  girl  she  had  spent 
long  summers  in  the  country  with  a Dorsetshire 
uncle  who  farmed  his  own  land,  and  there  had  sprung 
up  in  her  an  instinctive  sympathy  with  the  rich  old 
earth  and  its  kindly  powers,  with  the  animals  and 
the  crops,  with  the  labourers  and  their  rural  arts, 
with  all  the  interwoven  country  life,  and  its  deep 
rooting  in  the  soil  of  history  and  poetry. 

Country  life  is,  above  all,  steeped  in  common 
sense — the  old,  ancestral,  simple  wisdom  of  primitive 
men.  And  Elizabeth,  in  spite  of  her  classical  degree, 
and  her  passion  for  Greek  pots,  believed  herself  to 
be,  before  everything,  a person  of  common  sense. 
She  had  always  managed  her  own  family’s  affairs. 
She  had  also  been  the  paid  secretary  of  an  im- 
portant learned  society  in  her  twenties  not  long  after 
she  left  college,  and  knew  well  that  she  had  been  a 
conspicuous  success.  She  had  a great  love,  indeed, 
for  any  sort  of  organizing,  large  and  small,  for 
putting  things  straight,  and  running  them.  She  was 
burning  to  put  Mannering  straight — and  run  it.  She 
knew  she  could.  Organizing  means  not  doing  things 
yourself,  but  finding  the  right  people  to  do  them. 


io8  ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 

And  she  had  always  been  good  at  finding  the  right 
people — putting  the  round  pegs  into  the  round  holes. 

All  very  well,  however,  to  talk  of  running  the 
Squire’s  estate ! What  was  to  be  done  with  the 
Squire  ? 

Take  the  codicil  business.  First  thing  that  naorn- 
ing  he  had  sent  her  to  that  very  drawer  to  look  for 
something,  and  there  lay  the  precious  document — 
unsigned  and  unwitnessed — for  any  one  to  see.  He 
made  no  comment,  nor  of  course  did  she.  He  would 
probably  forget  it  till  the  date  of  his  son’s  marriage 
was  announced,  and  then  complete  it  in  a hurry. 

Take  the  farms  and  the  park.  As  to  the  farms 
there  were  two  summonses  now  pending  against  him 
with  regard  to  ‘ farms  in  hand  ’ — Holme  Wood  and 
another — besides  the  action  in  the  case  of  the  three 
incompetent  men,  Gregson  at  their  head,  who  v/ere 
being  turned  out.  With  regard  to  ploughing  up  the 
park,  all  his  attempts  so  far  to  put  legal  difficulties 
in  the  way  of  the  County  Committee  had  been  quite 
futile.  The  steam  plough  was  coming  in  a week. 
Meanwhile  the  gates  were  to  be  locked,  and  two  old 
park-keepers,  who  were  dithering  in  their  shoes,  had 
been  told  to  defend  them. 

At  bottom,  Elizabeth  was  tolerably  convinced  that 
the  Squire  would  not  land  himself  in  gaol,  cut  off 
from,  his  books  and  his  bronzes,  and  reduced  to  the 
comipany  of  people  who  had  never  heard  of  Pausa- 
nias.  But  she  was  alarm.ed  lest  he  should  ‘ try  it 
on  ’ a little  too  far,  in  these  days  when  the  needs  of 
war  and  the  revolutionary  currents  abroad  make  the 
setting  down  of  squires  especially  agreeable  to  the 
plebeians  who  sit  on  juries  or  county  committees. 
Of  course  he  must — he  certainly  would — climb  down. 

But  somebody  would  have  to  go  through  the  proc- 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN  109 

ess  of  persuading  him!  That  was  due  to  his  silly 
dignity!  She  supposed  that  somebody  would  be 
herself.  How  absurd!  She,  who  had  just  been  six 
weeks  on  the  scene ! But  neither  of  the  married 
daughters  had  the  smallest  influence  with  him;  Sir 
Henry  Chicksands  had  been  sent  about  his  business ; 
Major  Mannering  was  out  of  favour,  and  Desmond 
and  Pamela  were  but  babes. 

Then  a recollection  flashed  across  the  contriving 
mind  of  Elizabeth  which  brought  a decided  flush  to 
her  fair  skin — a flush  which  v/as  half  amusement, 
half  wrath.  That  morning  a rather  curious  incident 
had  happened.  After  her  talk  with  Major  Manner- 
ing, and  because  the  morning  was  fine  and  the  Squire 
was  away,  she  had  dragged  a small  table  out  into 
the  garden,  in  front  of  the  library,  and  set  to  work 
there  on  a part  of  the  new  catalogue  of  the  collec- 
tions, which  she  and  Mr.  Levasseur  were  making. 
She  did  not,  however,  like  Mr.  Levasseur.  Some- 
thing in  her,  indeed,  disapproved  of  him  strongly. 
She  had  already  managed  to  dislodge  him  a good 
deal  from  his  former  intimacy  with  the  Squire. 
Luckily  she  was  a much  better  scholar  than  he, 
though  she  admitted  that  his  artistic  judgment  was 
worth  having. 

As  a shelter  from  a rather  cold  north  wind,  she 
was  sitting  in  full  sun  under  the  protection  of  a yew 
hedge  of  ancient  growth,  which  ran  out  at  right 
angles  to  the  library,  and  made  one  side  of  a quad- 
rangular rose-garden,  planted  by  Mrs.  Mannering 
long  ago,  and  now,  like  everything  else,  in  confusion 
and  neglect. 

Presently  she  heard  voices  on  the  other  side  of  the 
hedge — Mrs.  Strang,  no  doubt,  and  Mrs.  Gaddesden. 
She  did  not  take  much  to  either  lady.  Mrs.  Strang 


I lO 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 


seemed  to  her  full  of  good  intentions,  but  without 
practical  ability  to  nt  them.  For  Mrs.  Gaddesden’s 
type  she  had  an  instinctive  contempt,  the  contempt 
of  the  clever  woman  of  small  means  who  has  had  to 
earn  her  own  living,  and  to  watch  in  silence  the  poses 
and  pretences  of  rich  women  playing  at  philanthropy. 
But,  all  the  same,  she  and  the  servants  between  them 
had  made  Mrs.  Gaddesden  extremely  comfortable, 
v/hile  at  the  same  time  rationing  her  strictly.  ‘ I 
really  can  be  civil  to  anybody ! ’ thought  Elizabeth 
complacently. 

Suddenly,  her  own  name,  and  a rush  of  remarks 
on  the  other  side  of  this  impenetrable  hedge,  made 
her  raise  her  head,  startled,  from  her  work,  eyes 
and  mouth  wide  open. 

It  was  Mrs.  Gaddesden  speaking. 

‘ Yes,  she’s  gone  out.  I v/ent  into  the  library  just 
now  to  ask  her  to  look  out  a train  for  me.  She’s 
wonderfully  good  at  Bradshaw.  Oh,  of  course,  I 
admit  she’s  a very  clever  v;oman ! But  she  wasn’t 
there.  Forest  thinks  she’s  gone  over  to  Holme 
Wood,  to  get  father  some  information  he  vrants. 
She  asked  Forest  how  to  get  this  this  morning.  My 
dear  Margaret,’  with  great  emphasis,  ‘ there’s  no 
question  about  it!  If  she  chooses,  she’ll  be  mistress 
here  before  long.  She’s  steadily  getting  father  into 
her  hands.  She  was  never  engaged,  was  she,  to  look 
after  accounts  and  farm.s?  and  yet  here  she  is,  tak- 
ing everything  on.  He’ll  grow  more  and  more  de- 
pendent upon  her,  and  you’ll  see ! — I believe  he’s 
been  inclined  for.  some  time  to  marry  again.  He 
wants  somebody  to  look  after  Pamela,  and  set  him 
free  for  his  hobbies.  He’ll  very  soon  nnd  out  that 
this  woman  fills  the  part,  and  that,  if  he  marries  her, 
he’ll  get  a classical  secretary  besides.’ 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN  iii 

Mrs.  Strang’s  voice — a deep  husky  voice — inter- 
posed. 

‘ Miss  Bremerton’s  not  a woman  to  be  married 
against  her  will,  that  you  may  be  sure  of,  Alice.’ 

‘ No,  but,  my  dear,’  said  the  other  impatiently, 
‘ every  woman  over  thirty  wants  a home — -and  a 
husband.  She’d  get  that  here  anyway,  however  bad 
father’s  affairs  may  be.  And,  of  course,  a position.’ 

The  voices  passed  on  out  of  hearing.  Elizabeth 
remained  transfixed.  Then  with  a contemptuous 
shake  of  the  head,  and  a bright  colour,  she  returned 
to  her  work. 

But  now,  as  she  sat  meditating  on  the  hill-side, 
this  absurd  conversation  recurred  to  her.  Absurd, 
and  not  absurd!  ‘ Most  women  of  my  sort  can  do 
what  they  have  a mind  to  do,’  she  thought  to  herself, 
with  perfect  sang-froid.  ‘ If  I thought  it  worth 
while  to  marry  this  elderly  lunatic — he’s  an  inter- 
esting lunatic,  though ! — I suppose  I could  do  it. 
But  it  isn’t  worth  v/hile — not  the  least.  I’ve  done 
with  being  a woman  I What  interests  me  is  the  bit 
of  zvork — national  work!  Men  find  that  kind  of 
thing  enough — a great  many  of  them.  I mean  to 
find  it  enough.  A fig  for  marrying!  ’ 

All  the  same,  as  she  returned  to  her  schemes  both 
for  regenerating  the  estate  and  managing  the  Squire 
— schemes  which  were  beginning  to  fascinate  her, 
both  by  their  difficulty  and  their  scale — she  found 
her  thoughts  oddly  interfered  with,  first  by  recollec- 
tions of  the  past — bitter,  ineffaceable  memories — 
and  then  by  reflections  on  the  recent  course  of  her 
relations  with  the  Squire. 

He  had  greeted  her  that  morning  without  a single 
reference  to  the  incidents  of  the  night  before,  had 
seemed  in  excellent  spirits,  and  before  going  up  to 


I 12 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 


town  had  given  her  in  twenty  minutes,  a propos  of 
some  difficulty  in  her  work,  one  of  the  most  brilliant 
lectures  on  certain  points  of  Homeric  archeology' 
she  had  ever  heard — and  she  was  a connoisseur  in 
lectures. 

Intellectually,  as  a scholar,  she  both  admired  and 
looked  upon  him — with  reverence,  even  with  enthu- 
siasm. She  was  eager  for  his  praise,  distressed  by 
his  censure.  Practically  and  morally,  patriotically, 
above  all,  she  despised  him,  thought  him  ‘ a worm 
and  no  man  ’ ! There  v/as  the  paradox  of  the  situ- 
ation and  as  full  of  tingling  challenge  and  entertain- 
ment as  paradoxes  generally  are. 

At  this  point  she  became  aware  of  a group  on 
the  high  road  far  to  her  right.  A pony-cart — a girl 
driving  it — a man  in  khaki  beside  her;  wdth  a second 
girl-figure  and  another  khaki-clad  warrior,  walking 
near. 

She  presently  thought  she  recognized  Pamela’s 
pony  and  Pamela  herself.  Desmond,  who  was  going 
off  that  very  evening  to  his  artillery  camp,  had  told 
her  that  ‘ Pam  ’ was  driving  Aubrey  over  to  Chet- 
worth,  and  that  he,  Desmond,  was  ‘ jolly  well  going 
to  see  to  it  that  neither  old  Aubrey  nor  Beryl  were 
bullied  out  of  their  lives  by  father,’  if  he  could  help 
it.  So  no  doubt  the  second  girl-figure  w^as  that  of 
Beryl  Chicksands,  and  the  other  gentleman  in  khaki 
was  probably  Captain  Chicksands,  for  whom  Des- 
mond seemed  to  cherish  a boyish  hero-worship.  They 
had  been  all  lunching  together  at  Chetworth,  she 
supposed. 

She  watched  them  coming,  with  a curious  mingling 
of  interest  in  them  and  detachment  from  them.  She 
was  to  them  merely  the  Squire’s  paid  secretary. 
Were  they  anything  to  her?  A puckish  thought 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 


113 

crossed  her  mind,  sending  a flash  of  slightly  cynical 
laughter  through  her  quiet  eyes.  If  Mrs.  Gaddes- 
den’s  terrors — for  she  supposed  they  were  terrors 
— were  suddenly  translated  into  fact,  why,  all  these 
people  would  become  in  a moment  related  to  her ! — 
their  lives  would  be  mixed  up  with  hers — she  and 
they  would  matter  intimately  to  each  other ! 

She  sat  smiling  and  dreaming  a few  more  minutes, 
the  dimples  playing  about  her  firm  mouth  and  chin. 
Then,  as  the  sound  of  wheels  drew  nearer,  she  rose 
and  went  towards  the  party. 

The  party  from  Chetworth  soon  perceived  Eliza- 
beth’s approach.  ‘So  this  is  the  learned  laay?’ 
said  the  Captain  in  Pamela’s  ear.  She  had  brought 
him  in  her  pony-carriage  so  far,  as  he  was  not  yet 
able  for  much  physical  exertion,  and  he  and  Beryl 
were  to  walk  back  from  Holme  Wood  Hill. 

He  put  up  his  eye-glass,  and  examined  the  figure 
as  it  came  nearer. 

‘ She’s  just  come  up,  I suppose,  from  the  farm,’ 
said  Pamela,  pointing  to  some  red  roofs  among  the 
trees,  in  the  wide  hollow  below  the  hill. 

‘“Athene  Ageleie”!’  murmured  the  Major, 
who  had  been  proxime  for  the  Ireland,  and  a Balliol 
man.  ‘ She  holds  herself  well — beautiful  hair ! ’ 

‘ Beryl,  this  is  Miss  Bremerton,’  said  Aubrey 
Mannering,  with  a cordial  ring  in  his  voice,  as  he 
introduced  his  fiancee  to  Elizabeth.  The  two  shook 
hands,  and  Elizabeth  thought  the  girl’s  manner  a 
little  stand-off,  and  wondered  why. 

The  pony  had  soon  been  tied  up,  and  the  party 
spread  themselves  on  the  grass  of  the  hill-side;  for 
Holme  Wood  Hill  was  a famous  point  of  view,  and 
the  sunny  peace  of  the  afternoon  invited  loitering. 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 


114 

For  miles  to  the  eastward  spread  an  undulating 
chalk  plain,  its  pale  grey  or  purplish  soil  showing 
in  the  arable  fields  where  the  stubbles  were  just  in 
process  of  ploughing,  its  monotony  broken  by  a vast 
wood  of  oak  and  beech  into  which  the  hill-side  ran 
down — a wood  of  historic  fame,  which  had  been 
there  v>^hen  Senlac  was  fought,  had  furnished  ship- 
timber  for  the  Armada,  and  sheltered  many  a cava- 
lier fugitive  of  the  Civil  Wars. 

The  wood  indeed,  which  belonged  to  the  Squire, 
was  a fragment  of  things  primeval.  For  genera- 
tions the  trees  in  it  had  sprung  up,  flourished,  and 
fallen  as  they  pleased.  There  were  corners  of  it 
where  the  north-west  wind  sweeping  over  the  bare 
down  above  it  had  made  pathw'ays  of  death  and 
ruin;  sinister  places  where  the  fallen  or  broken 
trunks  of  the  great  beech  trees,  as  they  had  crashed 
down-hill  upon  and  against  each  other,  had  assumed 
all  sorts  of  grotesque  and  phantasmal  attitudes,  as 
in  a trampled  melee  of  giants;  there  were  other  parts 
where  slender  plumed  trees,  rising  branchless  to  a 
great  height  above  open  spaces,  took  the  shape  from 
a distance  of  Italian  stone  palms,  and  gave  a touch 
of  southern  or  romantic  grace  to  the  English  mid- 
land scene ; while  at  their  feet,  the  tops  of  the  more 
crowded  sections  of  the  wood  lay  in  close,  billowy 
masses  of  leaf,  the  oaks  vividly  green,  the  beeches 
already  aflame. 

‘Who  says  there’s  a war?’  said  Captain  Chick- 
sands,  sinking  luxuriously  into  a sunny  bed  of  dry 
leaves,  conveniently  placed  in  front  of  Elizabeth. 
‘ Miss  Bremerton,  you  and  I were,  I understand,  at 
the  same  University?’ 

Elizabeth  assented. 

‘ Is  it  your  opinion  that  Universities  are  any 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 


115 

good? — that  after  the  war  there  are  going  to  be 
any  Universities  ? ’ 

‘ Only  those  that  please  the  Labour  Party ! ’ put 
in  Mannering. 

‘ Oh,  I’m  not  afraid  of  the  Labour  Party — avr- 
fully  good  fellows,  many  of  them.  The  sooner  they 
make  a Government  the  better.  They’ve  got  to 
learn  their  lessons  like  the  rest  of  us.  But  I do  want 
to  know  whether  Miss  Bremerton  thinks  Oxford 
was  any  use — before  the  war — and  is  going  to  be 
any  use  after  the  war?  It’s  all  right  now,  of  course, 
for  the  mom.ent,  with  the  Colleges  full  of  cadets 
and  wounded  men.  But  would  you  put  the  old  Ox- 
ford back  if  you  could?  ’ 

He  lay  on  his  elbows  looking  up  at  her.  Eliza- 
beth’s eyes  sparkled  a little.  She  realized  that  an 
able  man  was  experimenting  on  her,  putting  her 
through  her  paces.  She  asked  what  he  meant  by  ‘ the 
old  Oxford,’  and  an  amusing  dialogue  sprang  up 
between  them  as  to  their  respective  recollections  of 
the  great  University — the  dons,  the  lectures,  the 
games,  the  Eights,  ‘ Commem.’  and  the  like.  The 
Captain  presently  declared  that  Elizabeth  had  had 
a much  nicer  Oxford  than  he,  and  he  wished  he  had 
been  a female  student. 

‘ Didn’t  you — didn’t  you,’  he  said,  his  keen  eyes 
observing  her,  ‘ get  a prize  once  that  somebody  had 
given  to  the  Women’s  Colleges  for  some  Greek 
iambics  ? ’ 

‘ Oh,’  cried  Elizabeth,  ‘ how  did  you  hear  of 
that?  ’ 

‘ I was  rather  a dab  at  them  myself,’  he  said  lazily, 
drawing  his  hat  over  his  eyes  as  he  lay  in  the  sun, 
‘ and  I perfectly  remember  hearing  of  a young  lady 
— yes,  I believe  it  was  you! — whose  translation  of 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 


1 16 

Browning’s  “ Lost  Leader  ” into  Greek  iambics  was 
better  than  mine.  They  set  it  in  the  Ireland.  You 
admit  it?  Capital!  As  to  the  superiority  of  yours, 
I was,  of  course,  entirely  sceptical,  though  polite. 
Remind  me,  how  did  you  translate  “ Just  for  a rib- 
bon to  put  on  his  coat  ” ? ’ 

With  a laughing  mouth,  Elizabeth  at  once  quoted 
the  Greek. 

The  Captain  made  a wry  face. 

‘ It  sounds  plausible,  I agree,’  he  said  slowly,  ‘ but 
I don’t  believe  a Greek  would  have  understood  a 
word  of  it.  You  remember  that  in  the  dim  Victorian 
ages,  when  one  great  Latin  scholar  gave,  as  he 
thought,  the  neatest  possible  translation  of  “ The 
path  of  glory  leads  but  to  the  grave,”  another  great 
Latin  scholar  declared  that  all  a Roman  could  have 
understood  by  it  would  have  been  “ The  path  of  a 
public  office  leads  to  the  jaws  of  the  hillock”?’ 

The  old  Oxford  joke  was  new  in  the  ears  of  this 
Georgian  generation,  and  when  the  laugh  subsided, 
Elizabeth  said  mildly: 

‘ Now,  please,  may  I have  yours?’ 

‘ What — my  translation  ? Oh — horribly  unfair ! ’ 
said  the  Captain,  chewing  a piece  of  grass.  ‘ How- 
ever, here  it  is  1 ’ 

He  gave  it  out — with  unction. 

Elizabeth  fell  upon  it  in  a flash,  dissected  and 
quarrelled  with  every  word  of  it,  turned  it  inside 
out  in  fact,  while  the  Captain,  still  chewing,  followed 
her  with  eyes  of  growing  enjoyment. 

‘ Well,  I’ll  take  a vote  when  I get  back  to  the 
front,’  he  said,  when  she  came  to  an  end.  ‘ Several 
firsts  in  Mods  on  our  staff.  I’ll  send  you  the  result.’ 

The  talk  dropped.  The  mention  of  the  front  re- 
minded every  one  of  the  war,  and  its  bearing  on 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 


117 

their  own  personal  lot.  Desmond  was  going  into 
camp  that  evening.  In  a few  months  he  would  be  a 
full-blown  gunner  at  the  front.  Beryl,  watching 
Aubrey’s  thin  face  and  nervous  frovm,  proved  in- 
wardly that  the  Aldershot  appointment  might  go 
on.  And  Elizabeth’s  thoughts  had  flown  to  her 
brother  in  Mesopotamia. 

Pamela,  sitting  apart,  and  deeply  shaded  by  a 
great  beech  with  drooping  branches  that  rose  be- 
hind the  group,  was  sharply  unhappy,  and  filled  with 
a burning  jealousy  of  Elizabeth,  v/ho  queened  it 
there  in  the  middle  of  them — so  self-possessed, 
agreeable,  and  competent.  How  well  Arthur  had 
been  getting  on  with  her!  What  a tiresome,  tactless 
idiot  she,  Pamela,  must  seem  in  comparison!  The 
memory  of  her  talk  with  him  made  her  cheeks  hot. 
So  few  chances  of  seeing  him ! — and  when  they  came, 
she  threw  them  away.  She  felt  for  the  moment  as 
though  she  hated  Elizabeth.  Why  had  her  father 
saddled  her  upon  them?  Life  was  difficult  enough 
before.  Passionately  she  began  to  think  of  her 
threat  to  Arthur.  It  had  been  the  merest  ‘ idle 
word.’  But  why  shouldn’t  she  realize  it — why  not 
‘ run  away  ’ ? There  was  work  to  be  done,  and 
money  to  be  earned,  by  any  able-bodied  girl.  And 
perhaps  then,  when  she  was  on  her  own,  and  had 
proved  that  she  was  not  a child  any  longer,  Arthur 
would  respect  her  more,  take  more  interest  in  her. 

‘What  do  you  prophesy?’  said  Elizabeth  sud- 
denly, addressing  Arthur  Chicksands,  who  seemed  to 
be  asleep  in  the  grass.  ‘ Will  it  end — by  next  sum- 
mer? ’ 

‘What,  the  war?’  he  said,  waking  up.  ‘Oh 
dear,  no.  Next  year  will  be  the  worst  of  any — 
the  test  of  us  all — especially  of  you  civilians  at  home. 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 


1 18 

If  v/e  stick  it,  we  shall  save  ourselves  and  the  world. 
If  we  don’t ’ 

Lie  shrugged  his  shoulders.  His  voice  was  full 
and  deep.  It  thrilled  the  girl  sitting  in  the  shade — 
partly  with  fear.  In  three  weeks  or  so,  the  speaker 
would  be  back  in  the  full  inferno  of  the  front,  and 
because  of  her  father’s  behaviour  she  would  prob- 
ably not  be  able  to  see  him  in  the  interval.  Perhaps 
she  might  never  see  him  again.  Perhaps  this  v/as 
the  last  time.  And  he  would  go  away  without  giv- 
ing her  a thought.  Whereas,  if  she  had  played  her 
cards  differently,  this  one  last  day,  he  might  at  least 
have  asked  her  to  write  to  him.  Many  men  did — 
even  with  girls  they  hardly  knew  at  all. 

Just  then  she  noticed  a movement  of  Beryl’s,  and 
saw  her  friend’s  small  bare  hand  creep  out  and  slip 
itself  into  Aubrey  Mannering’s,  as  he  sat  beside  her 
on  the  grass.  The  man’s  hand  enfolded  the  girl’s — 
he  turned  round  to  smile  at  her  in  silence.  A pang 
of  passionate  envy  sv/ept  through  Pamela.  It  was 
just  so  she  wished  to  be  enfolded — to  be  loved. 

It  was  Elizabeth — as  the  person  who  had  busi- 
ness to  do  and  hours  to  keep — who  gave  the  signal 
for  the  break-up  of  the  party.  She  sprang  to  her 
feet,  with  a light,  decided  movement,  and  all  the 
others  fell  into  line.  Arthur  and  Beryl  still  accom- 
panied the  Mannering  contingent  a short  distance, 
the  Captain  walking  beside  Elizabeth  in  animated 
conversation.  At  last  Beryl  peremptorily  recalled 
him  to  the  pony-carriage,  and  the  group  halted  for 
good-byes. 

Pamela  stood  rather  stiffly  apart.  The  Captain 
went  up  to  her. 

‘ Good-bye,  Pamela.  Do  write  to  me  sometimes ! 
I shall  be  awfully  interested  about  the  farms ! ’ 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 


119 

With  vexation  she  felt  the  colour  rush  to  her 
cheeks. 

' I shan’t  have  much  to  say  about  them,’  she  said 
stiffly. 

‘ I’m  sure  you  will!  You’ll  get  keen!  But  write 
about  anything.  It’s  awfully  jolly  to  get  letters  at 
the  front ! ’ 

His  friendly,  interrogating  eyes  were  on  her,  as 
though  she  puzzled  him  in  this  new  phase,  and  he 
w^anted  to  understand  her.  She  said  hurriedly,  ‘ If 
you  like,’  hating  herself  for  the  coolness  in  her  voice, 
and  shook  hands,  only  to  hear  him  say,  as  he  turned 
finally  to  Elizabeth,  ‘ Mind,  you  have  promised  me 
“ The  Battle  of  the  Plough  ” ! I’m  afraid  you’ll 
hardly  have  time  to  put  it  into  iambics ! ’ 

So  he  had  asked  Miss  Bremerton  to  write  to  him 
too ! Pamela  vowed  invardly  that  in  that  case  she 
would  not  write  him  a line.  And  it  seemed  to  her 
unseemly  that  her  father’s  secretary  should  be  mak- 
ing mock  of  her  father’s  proceedings  with  a man  who 
was  a complete  stranger  to  her.  She  walked  im- 
petuously ahead  of  Aubrey  and  Elizabeth.  Towards 
the  west  the  beautiful  day  was  dying,  and  the  light 
streamed  on  the  girl’s  lithe  young  figure  and  caught 
her  golden-brov/n  hair.  Clouds  of  gnats  rose  in  the 
mild  air;  and  a light  seemed  to  come  back  from  the 
bronzed  and  purple  hedgerows,  making  a gorgeous 
atm.osphere,  in  which  the  quiet  hill-top  and  the  thin- 
ning trees  swam  transfigured.  A green  woodpecker 
v/as  pecking  industriously  among  some  hedgerow 
oaks,  and  Pamela,  who  loved  birds  and  watched 
them,  caught  every  now  and  then  the  glitter  of  his 
flight.  The  world  was  dropping  towards  sleep.  But 
she  was  burningly  awake  and  alive.  Had  she  ever 
been  really  alive  before? 


120 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 


Then — suddenly  she  remembered  Desmond.  He 
was  to  be  home  from  some  farewell  visits  between 
five  and  six.  She  would  be  late ; he  might  want  her 
for  a hundred  things.  His  last  evening ! Her  heart 
smote  her.  They  had  reached  the  park  gates.  Wav- 
ing her  hand  to  the  two  behind,  with  the  one  word 
‘Desmond!’  she  began  to  run,  and  was  soon  out 
of  their  sight. 

Elizabeth  and  Aubrey  were  not  long  behind  her. 
They  found  the  house  indeed  pervaded  with  Des- 
mond, and  Desmond’s  going.  Aubrey  also  was  go- 
ing up  to  town,  but  of  him  nobody  took  any  notice. 
Pamela  and  Forest  were  in  attendance  on  the  young 
warrior,  who  was  himself  in  the  wildest  spirits, 
shouting  and  whistling  up  and  downstairs,  singing 
the  newest  and  most  shocking  of  camp  songs,  chaffing 
Forest,  and  looking  with  mischievous  eyes  at  the 
various  knitted  ‘ comforts  ’ to  which  his  married 
sisters  were  hastily  putting  the  last  stitches. 

‘ I say,  Pam — do  you  see  me  in  mittens?’  he  said 
to  her  in  the  hall,  thrusting  out  his  two  splendid 
hands  with  a grin.  ‘ And  as  for  that  jersey  of 
Alice’s — why,  I should  stew  to  death  in  it.  Oh,  I 
know — I can  give  it  to  my  batman.  The  fellows 
tell  me  you  can  always  get  rid  of  things  to  your 
batman.  It’s  like  sending  your  wedding-presents 
to  the  pawn-shop.  But  where  is  father?’  The  boy 
looked  discontentedly  at  his  watch.  ‘ He  vowed  he’d 
be  here  by  five.  I must  be  off  by  a few  minutes  after 
eight.’ 

‘ The  train’s  late.  He’ll  be  here  directly,’  said 
Pamela  confidently;  ‘and  I say — don’t  you  hurt 
Alice’s  feelings,  old  man.’ 

‘ Don’t  you  preach,  Pam  1 ’ said  the  boy,  laugh- 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 


I2I 


ing.  And  a few  minutes  afterwards  Pamela,  passing 
the  open  door  of  the  drawing-room,  heard  him  hand- 
somely thanking  his  elder  sisters.  He  ran  into  her 
as  he  emerged  with  his  arms  full  of  scarves,  mit- 
tens, and  the  famous  jersey  which  had  taken  Alice 
Gaddesden  a year  to  knit. 

‘Stuff  ’em  In  somewhere,  Pam!’  he  said  In  her 
ear.  ‘ They  can  go  up  to  London  anyway.’  And 
having  shovelled  them  all  off  on  to  her,  he  raced 
along  the  passage  to  the  library  in  search  of  Eliza- 
beth. 

‘ I say,  Miss  Bremerton,  I want  a book  or  two.’ 

Elizabeth  looked  up  smiling  from  her  table.  She 
was  already  of  the  same  mind  as  everybody  out- 
side and  inside  Mannering — ^that  Desmond  did  you 
a kindness  when  he  asked  you  to  do  him  one. 

‘ What  kind  of  a book?  ’ 

‘ Oh,  I’ve  got  some  novels,  and  some  Nat  Goulds, 
and  Pamela’s  given  me  some  war-books.  Don’t 
know  if  I shall  read  ’em! — Well,  I’d  like  a small 
Horace,  if  you  can  find  one.  “ My  tutor  ” was  an 
awfully  good  hand  at  Horace.  He  really  did  make 
me  like  the  old  chap ! And  have  you  got  such  a 
thing  as  a Greek  Anthology  that  wouldn’t  take  up 
much  room  ? ’ 

Elizabeth  went  to  the  shelves  to  look.  Desmond 
as  the  possessor  of  literary  tastes  was  a novelty  to 
her.  But,  after  all,  she  understood  that  he  had 
been  a half  In  the  Sixth  at  Eton,  before  his  cadet 
training  began.  She  found  him  two  small  pocket 
editions,  and  the  boy  thanked  her  gratefully.  He 
began  to  turn  over  the  Anthology,  as  though  search- 
ing for  something. 

‘Can  I help  you  to  find  anything?’  she  asked 
him. 


122 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 


‘ No — it’s  something  I remember,’  he  said  ab- 
sently, and  presently  hit  upon  it,  with  a look  of 
pleasure, 

‘They  did  know  a thing  or  two,  didn’t  they? 
That’s  fine  anyway?’  He  handed  her  the  book. 
‘ But  I forget  some  of  the  words.  Do  you  mind  giv- 
ing me  a construe  ? ’ he  said  humbly. 

Elizabeth  translated,  feeling  rather  choky. 

‘ “ On  the  Spartans  at  Thermopylae. 

‘ “ Him ” ’ 

‘ That’s  Xerxes,  of  course,’  put  in  Desmond. 

‘ “ Him,  who  changed  the  paths  of  earth  and  sea, 
who  sailed  upon  the  mainland,  and  walked  upon  the 
deep — him  did  Spartan  valour  hold  back,  with  just 
three  hundred  spears.  Shame  on  you,  mountains 
and  seas ! ” ’ 

‘Well,  that’s  all  right,  isn’t  it?’  said  the  boy 
simply,  looking  up.  ‘ Couldn’t  put  it  better  if  you 
tried,  could  you?’  Then  he  said,  hesitating  a little 
as  he  turned  down  the  leaf,  and  put  the  book  in  his 
pocket,  ‘ Five  of  the  fellows  who  w^ere  in  the  Sixth 
with  me  this  time  last  year  are  dead  by  now.  It 
makes  you  think  a bit,  doesn’t  it? — Hullo,  there  is 
father ! ’ 

He  turned  joyously,  his  young  figure  finely  caught 
in  the  light  of  Elizabeth’s  lamp  against  the  back- 
ground of  the  Nike. 

‘Well,  father  you  have  been  a time!  I thought 
you’d  forgotten  altogether  I was  off  to-night.’ 

‘ The  train  was  abominably  late.  Travelling  is 
becoming  a perfect  nuisance!  I gave  the  station- 
master  a piece  of  my  mind,’  said  the  Squire  angrily. 

‘ And  I expect  he  said  that  you  civilians  jolly  well 
have  to  wait  for  the  munition  trains ! ’ 

‘ He  muttered  some  nonsense  of  that  sort.  I 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 


123 

didn’t  listen  to  him.’  The  Squire  threw  himself 
down  in  an  arm-chair.  Desmond  perched  on  the 
corner  of  a table  near.  Elizabeth  discreetly  took 
up  her  work  and  disappeared. 

‘ How  much  time  have  you  got?  ’ asked  the  Squire 
abruptly. 

‘ Oh,  a few  minutes.  Aubrey  and  I are  to  have 
some  supper  before  I go.  But  Forest  ’ll  come  and 
tell  me.’ 

‘Everything  ready?  Got  money  enough?’ 

‘ Rather ! I shan’t  want  anything  for  an  age. 
Why,  I shall  be  buying  war-loan  out  of  my  pay  I ’ 

He  laughed  happily.  Then  his  face  grew  sud- 
denly serious. 

‘ Look  here,  father — I want  awfully  to  say  some- 
thing. Do  you  mind  ? ’ 

‘ If  you  want  to  say  it,  I suppose  you  will  say  it.^ 

The  Squire  was  sitting  hunched  up,  looking  old 
and  tired,  his  thick  white  hair  piled  fantastically 
above  his  eyes. 

Desmond  straightened  his  shoulders  with  the  air 
of  one  going  over  the  parapet. 

‘ Well,  it’s  this,  father.  I do  wish  you’d  give  up 
that  row  about  the  park ! ’ 

The  Squire  sat  up  impatiently. 

‘ That’s  not  your  business,  Desmond.  It  can’t 
matter  to  you.’ 

‘Yes,  but  it  does  matter  to  me!’  said  the  boy 
with  energy.  ‘ It’ll  be  in  all  the  papers — the  fellows 
will  gas  about  it  at  mess — it’s  awfully  hard  lines  on 
me.  It  makes  me  feel  rotten ! ’ 

The  Squire  laughed.  He  was  reminded  of  a 
Fourth  of  June  years  before,  when  Desmond  had 
gone  through  agonies  of  shame  because  his  father 
was  not,  in  his  eyes,  properly  ‘ got-up  ’ for  the  occa- 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 


'124 

Sion — how  he  had  disappeared  in  the  High  Street, 
and  only  joined  his  people  again  in  the  crowd  at  the 
fireworks. 

‘ I recommend  you  to  stick  it,  Desmond.  It  won’t 
last  long.  I’ve  got  my  part  to  play,  and  you’ve  got 
yours.  You  fight  because  they  make  you.’ 

‘ I don’t!  ’ said  the  boy  passionately.  ‘ I fight 
because ’ 

Then  his  words  broke  down.  He  descended  from 
the  table. 

‘Well,  all  right,  father.  I suppose  it’s  no  good 
talking.  Only  if  you  think  I shan’t  mind  if  you  get 
yourself  put  in  quad,  you’re  jolly  w'ell  mistaken. 
Hullo,  Forest!  I’m  coming!’ 

He  hurried  off,  the  Squire  moving  slowly  after 
him.  In  the  hour  before  the  boy  departed  he  was 
the  spoilt  darling  of  his  sisters  and  the  servants, 
who  hung  round  him,  and  could  not  do  enough  for 
him.  He  endured  it,  on  the  whole,  patiently  dash- 
ing out  at  the  very  end  to  say  good-bye  to  an  old 
gardener,  once  a keeper,  with  whom  he  used  to  go 
ferreting  in  the  park.  To  his  father  alone  his  man- 
ner was  not  quite  as  usual.  It  was  the  manner  of 
one  who  had  been  hurt.  The  Squire  felt  it. 

As  to  his  elder  son,  he  and  Aubrey  parted  with- 
out any  outward  sign  of  discord,  and  on  the  way  to 
London  Aubrey,  with  the  dry  detachment  that  was 
natural  to  him  in  speaking  of  himself,  told  the  story 
of  the  preceding  twenty-four  hours  to  the  eager  Des- 
mond’s sympathetic  ears.  ‘Well  done,  Broomie!’ 
was  the  boy’s  exultant  comment  on  the  tale  of  the 
codicil. 

The  house  after  Desmond’s  departure  settled 
dreamily  down.  Pamela,  with  red  eyes,  retreated 
to  the  schoolroom,  and  began  to  clear  up  the  debris 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 


125 

left  by  the  packing;  Alice  Gaddesden  went  to  sleep 
in  the  drawing-room;  Mrs.  Strang  wrote  urgent  let- 
ters to  registry  offices,  who  now  seldom  answered 
her;  the  Squire  was  in  the  library,  and  Elizabeth 
retreated  early  to  her  own  room.  She  spent  a good 
deal  of  time  in  writing  up  a locked  diary,  and  finish- 
ing up  a letter  to  her  mother.  Then  she  saw  to  her 
astonishment  that  it  was  nearly  one  o’clock,  and 
began  to  feel  sleepy. 

The  night  was  warm,  and  before  undressing  she 
put  out  her  light,  and  threw  up  her  window.  There 
was  a moon  nearly  at  the  full  outside,  and  across  the 
misty  stretches  of  the  park  the  owls  were  calling. 

Suddenly  she  heard  a distant  footstep,  and  drew 
back  from  the  window.  A man  was  pacing  slowly 
up  and  down  an  avenue  of  pollarded  limes  which 
divided  the  rose-garden  from  the  park.  His  figure 
could  only  be  intermittently  seen ; but  it  was  certainly 
the  Squire. 

She  drew  the  curtains  again  without  shutting  the 
window;  and  for  long  after  she  was  in  bed  she  still 
heard  the  footstep.  It  awakened  many  trains  of 
thought  in  her — of  her  own  position  in  this  house- 
hold where  she  seemed  to  have  become  already 
mistress  and  indispensable;  of  Desmond’s  last  words 
with  her;  of  the  relations  between  father  and  son; 
of  Captain  Chicksands  and  his  most  agreeable  com- 
pany; of  Pamela’s  evident  dislike  of  her,  and  what 
she  could  do  to  mend  it. 

As  to  Pamela,  Elizabeth’s  thoughts  went  oddly 
astray.  She  was  vexed  with  the  girl  for  what  had 
seemed  to  the  elder  woman  her  young  rudeness  to 
a gallant  and  distinguished  man.  Why,  she  had 
scarcely  spoken  a word  to  him  during  the  sitting 
on  the  hill ! In  some  way,  Elizabeth  supposed.  Cap- 


126 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 


tain  Chicksands  had  offended  her — had  not  made 
enough  of  her  perhaps?  But  girls  must  learn  now 
to  accept  simpler  and  blunter  manners  from  their 
men  friends.  She  guessed  that  Pamela  was  in  that 
self-conscious,  exalte  mood  of  first  youth  v/hich  she 
remembered  so  well  in  herself — fretting  too,  no 
doubt,  poor  child ! over  the  parting  from  Desmond. 
Anyway  she  seemed  to  have  no  particular  interest 
in  Arthur  Chicksands,  nor  he  in  her,  though  his 
tone  in  speaking  to  her  had  been,  naturally,  familiar 
and  intimate.  But  probably  he  was  one  of  those  able 
men  who  have  little  to  say  to  the  young  girl,  and 
keep  their  real  minds  for  the  older  and  experienced 
woman. 

At  any  rate,  Elizabeth  dismissed  from  her  mind 
whatever  vague  notion  or  curiosity  as  to  a possible 
love-affair  for  Pamela  in  that  direction  might  have 
been  lurking  in  it.  And  that  being  so,  she  promptly, 
and  without  arriere  pensee  of  any  sort,  allowed  her- 
self the  pleasant  recollection  of  half  an  hour’s  con- 
versation which  had  put  her  intellectually  on  her 
mettle,  and  quickened  those  infant  ambitions  of  a 
practical  and  patriotic  kind  which  were  beginning  to 
rise  in  her. 

But  the  Squire’s  coming  escapade ! How  to  stop 
It? — for  Desmond’s  sake  chiefly. 

Dear  boy!  It  was  on  a tender,  almost  maternal 
thought  of  him  that  she  at  last  turned  to  sleep.  But 
the  footstep  pursued  her  ear.  What  was  the  mean- 
ing of  this  long  nocturnal  pacing?  Had  the  Squire, 
after  all,  a heart,  or  some  fragment  of  one?  Was 
it  the  parting  from  Desmond  that  thus  kept  him 
from  his  bed?  She  would  have  liked  to  think  It — 
but  did  not  quite  succeed! 


CHAPTER  VII 


A WEEK  or  two  had  passed. 

The  Squire  was  on  his  way  to  inspect  his 
main  preparations  for  the  battle  at  the  park 
gates,  which  he  expected  on  the  morrow.  He  had 
been  out  before  breakfast  that  morning,  on  horse- 
back, with  one  of  the  gardeners,  to  see  that  all  the 
gates  on  the  estate,  except  the  Chetworth  gate,  were 
locked  and  padlocked.  For  the  Chetworth  gate, 
which  adjoined  the  land  to  be  attacked,  more  serious 
defences  were  in  progress. 

All  his  attempts  to  embarrass  the  action  of  the 
Committee  had  been  so  far  vain.  The  alternatives 
he  had  proposed  had  been  refused.  Fifty  acres  at 
the  Chetworth  end  of  Mannering  Park,  besides 
goodly  slices  elsewhere,  the  County  Committee  meant 
to  have.  As  the  Squire  would  not  plough  them  him- 
self, and  as  the  season  was  advancing,  he  had  been 
peremptorily  Informed  that  the  motor  plough  be- 
longing to  the  County  Committee  would  be  sent  over 
on  such  a day,  with  so  many  men,  to  do  the  work; 
the  land  had  been  surveyed;  no  damage  would  be 
done  to  the  normal  state  of  the  property  that  could 
be  avoided;  et  cetera. 

So  the  crisis  was  at  hand.  The  Squire  felt  battle 
in  his  blood. 

As  he  walked  along  through  his  domain,  exhila- 
rated by  the  bright  frosty  morning,  and  swinging  his 
stick  like  a boy,  he  was  in  the  true  Quixotic  mood, 
ready  to  tilt  at  any  wind-mill  in  his  path.  The  state 
of  the  country,  the  state  of  the  war,  the  state  of  his 

127 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 


;i28 

own  affairs,  had  produced  in  him  a final  ferment  of 
resentment  and  disgust  which  might  explode  in  any 
folly. 

Why  not  go  to  prison?  He  thought  he  could  bear 
it.  A man  must  stand  by  his  opinions — even  through 
sacrifice.  It  would  startle  the  public  into  attention. 
Such  outrages  on  the  freedom,  on  the  ancient  rights 
of  Englishmen,  must  not  pass  without  protest.  Yes 
— he  felt  it  in  him  to  be  a martyr ! They  would 
hardly  refuse  him  a pocket  Homer  in  prison. 

What,  a month?  Three  weeks,  in  actual  practice. 
Luckily  he  cared  nothing  at  all  about  food — though 
he  refused  to  be  rationed  by  a despotic  Government. 
On  a handful  of  dates  and  a bit  of  coarse  bread  he 
had  passed  many  a day  of  hard  work  when  he  was 
excavating  in  the  East.  One  can  always  starve — 
for  a purpose ! The  Squire  conceived  himself  as 
out  for  Magna  Charta — the  root  principles  of  Brit- 
ish liberty.  As  for  those  chattering  fellows  of  the 
Labour  Party,  let  them  conquer  England  if  they 
could.  While  the  Government  ploughed  up  his  land 
without  leave,  the  Socialists  would  strip  him  of  it 
altogether.  Well,  nothing  for  it  but  to  fight!  If 
one  went  down,  one  went  down — but  at  least  hon- 
ourably. 

In  the  Times  that  morning  there  was  a report  of  a 
case  in  the  north,  a landowner  fined  £ioo,  for  letting 
a farm  go  to  waste  for  the  game’s  sake.  And  Miss 
Bremerton  had  been  holding  up  the  like  fate  to  him 
that  morning — because  of  Holme  Wood.  A w'oman 
of  parts  that! — too  clever  I — a disputatious  creature, 
whom  a man  would  like  to  put  down.  But  it 
wasn’t  easy;  she  slipped  out  of  your  grip — gave  you 
unexpected  tits  for  tats.  One  would  have  thought 
after  that  business  with  the  will,  she  would  be  anxious 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 


129 


to  make  up — to  show  docility.  In  such  a relation 
one  expected  docility.  But  not  a bit  of  it ! She  grew 
bolder.  The  Squire  admitted  uncomfortably  that  it 
was  his  own  fault — only,  in  fact,  what  he  deserved 
for  making  a land-agent,  accountant,  and  legal  ad- 
viser out  of  a poor  lady  who  had  merely  engaged  her- 
self to  be  his  private  secretary  for  classical  purposes. 

All  the  same  he  confessed  that  she  had  never 
yet  neglected  the  classical  side  of  her  duties.  His 
thoughts  contrasted  the  library  and  the  collections 
as  they  were  now,  with  what  they  had  been  a couple 
of  months  before.  Now  he  knew  where  books  could 
be  found;  now  one  could  see  the  precious  things  he 
possessed.  Her  taste — her  neatness — her  diligence 
— nothing  could  beat  them.  And  she  moved  so 
quietly — had  so  light  a foot — and  always  a pleasant 
voice  and  smile.  Oh  yes,  she  had  been  a great  catch 
— an  astonishing  catch — no  doubt  of  that.  All  the 
same  he  was  not  going  to  be  entirely  governed  by 
her!  And  again  he  thought  complacently  of  the 
weak  places  in  her  scholarship — the  very  limited 
extent  of  her  reading — compared  to  his.  ‘ By 
Zeus! — Tror^  i'ffTiv — if  it  weren’t  for  that,  I 
should  never  keep  the  whip-hand  of  her  at  all ! ’ 

She  had  made  a forlorn  attempt  again,  that  morn- 
ing, to  dissuade  him  from  the  park  adventure.  But 
there  he  drew  the  line.  For  there  really  was  a line, 
though  he  admitted  it  might  be  difficult  to  see,  con- 
sidering all  that  he  was  shovelling  upon  her.  He 
had  been  very  short — perhaps  she  would  say,  very 
rude — with  her.  Well,  it  couldn’t  be  helped!  When 
she  saw  what  he  was  really  prepared  to  face,  she 
would  at  least  respect  him.  And  if  he  was  shut  up, 
she  could  get  on  with  the  catalogue,  and  keep  things 
going. 


130 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 


Altogether  the  Squire  was  above  himself.  The 
tonic  air  and  scents  of  the  autumn,  the  crisp  leaves 
underfoot,  the  slight  frost  on  the  ruts,  helped  his 
general  intoxication.  He,  the  supposed  scholar  and 
recluse,  was  about  to  play  a part — a rattling  part. 
The  eye  of  England  would  be  upon  him!  He  al- 
ready tasted  the  prison  fare,  and  found  it  quite 
tolerable. 

As  to  Desmond 

But  the  thought  of  him  no  sooner  crossed  the 
Squire’s  mind  than  he  dismissed  it.  Or  rather  it 
survived  far  within,  as  a volcanic  force,  from  which 
the  outer  froth  and  ferment  drew  half  its  strength. 
He  was  being  forcibly  dispossessed  of  Desmond, 
just  as  he  was  being  forcibly  dispossessed  of  his 
farms  and  his  park;  or  of  his  money,  swallowed  up 
in  monstrous  income  tax. 

Ah,  there  were  Dodge  and  Perley,  the  two  park- 
keepers,  one  of  whom  lived  in  the  White  Lodge, 
now  only  a hundred  yards  away.  Another  man  who 
was  standing  by  them,  near  the  park  wall,  looked  to 
the  Squire  like  Gregson,  his  ejected  farmer.  And 
who  was  that  black-coated  fellow  coming  through 
the  small  wicket-gate  beside  the  big  one?  What 
the  devil  was  he  doing  in  the  park?  There  was  a 
permanent  grievance  in  the  Squire’s  mind  against 
the  various  rights-of-way  through  his  estate.  Why 
shouldn’t  he  be  at  liberty  to  shut  out  that  man  if 
he  wanted  to?  Of  course  by  the  mere  locking  and 
barricading  of  the  gates,  as  they  would  be  locked 
and  barricaded  on  the  morrow,  he  was  flouting  the 
law.  But  that  was  a trifle.  The  gates  were  his  own 
anyway. 

The  black-coated  man,  however,  instead  of  pro- 
ceeding along  the  road,  had  now  approached  the 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 


group  of  men  standing  under  the  wall,  and  was 
talking  with  them.  They  themselves  did  not  seem 
to  be  doing  anything,  although  a large  coil  of  barbed 
wire  and  a number  of  hurdles  lay  near  them. 

‘ Hullo,  Dodge ! ’ 

At  the  Squire’s  voice  the  black-coated  man  with- 
drew a little  distance  to  the  roadway,  where  he  stood 
watching.  Of  the  three  others  the  two  old  fellows, 
ex-keepers  both  of  them,  stood  sheepishly  silent,  as 
the  Squire  neared  them. 

‘Well,  my  men,  good-morning!  What  have  you 
done?  ’ said  the  Squire  peremptorily. 

Dodge  looked  up. 

‘ We’ve  put  a bit  of  wire  on  the  gate,  Squoire, 
an’  fastened  the  latch  of  it  up — and  we’ve  put  a 
length  or  two  along  the  top  of  the  wall,’  said  the 
old  man  slowly — ‘ an’  then ’ He  paused. 

‘Then  what? — what  about  the  hurdles?  I ex- 
pected to  find  them  all  up  by  now ! ’ 

Dodge  looked  at  Perley.  And  Perley,  a gaunt, 
ugly  fellow,  who  had  been  a famous  hunter  and 
trapper  in  his  day,  took  off  his  hat  and  mopped  his 
brow,  before  he  said,  in  a small,  cautious  voice,  en- 
tirely out  of  keeping  with  the  rest  of  him: 

‘ The  treuth  on  it  is,  Squoire,  we  don’t  loike  the 
job.  We  be  afeard  of  their  havin’  the  law  on  us.’ 

‘Oh,  you’re  afraid,  are  you?’  said  the  Squire 
angrily.  ‘You  won’t  stand  up  for  your  rights,  any- 
way I ’ 

Perley  looked  at  his  employer  a little  askance. 

‘ They’re  not  our  rights,  if  you  please.  Muster 
Mannering.  We  don’t  have  nothing  to  say  to  ’un.’ 

‘ They  are  your  rights,  you  foolish  fellow  I If 
this  abominable  Government  tramples  on  me  to-day, 
it’ll  trample  on  you  to-morrow.’ 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 


132 

‘ Mebbe,  Squoire,  mebbe,’  said  Perley  mildly. 
‘ But  Dodge  and  I don’t  feel  loike  standing  up  to 
’un.  We  was  engaged  to  mind  the  roads  an’  the 
leaves,  an’  a bit  rabbitin’,  an’  sich  like.  But  this 
sort  of  job  is  somethin’  out  o’  the  common.  Muster 
Mannering.  We  don’t  hold  wi’  it.  The  County 
they’ve  got  a powerful  big  road-engine,  Squoire. 
They’ll  charge  them  gates  to-m.orrow — there’ll  be  a 
terr’ble  to  do.  My  wife,  she’s  frightened  to  death. 
She’s  got  a cart  from  Laycocks,  and  she’s  takin’  all 
our  bit  things  over  to  her  mother’s.  She  won’t  stay, 
she  says,  to  be  blowed  up,  not  for  no  one.  Them 
Governments  is  terr’ble  powerful,  Squoire.  If  they 
was  to  loose  a bit  o’  gas  on  us — or  some  o’  they 
stuffs  they  put  into  shells?  Noa,  Noa,  Squoire’ — 
Perley  shook  his  head  resolutely,  imitated  exactly  by 
Dodge — ‘ we’ll  do  our  dooty  in  them  things  we  was 
engaged  to  do.  But  we’re  not  foightin’  men ! ’ 

‘You  needn’t  tell  me  that!’  said  the  Squire,  ex- 
asperated. ‘ The  look  of  you’s  enough.  So  you 
refuse  to  barricade  those  gates?’ 

‘ Well,  we  do,  Squoire,’  said  Perley,  in  a tone  of 
forced  cheerfulness. 

‘ Yes,  we  do,’  said  Dodge  slowly,  copying  the 
manner  of  his  leader. 

All  this  time  Gregson  had  been  standing  a little 
apart  from  the  rest.  His  face  showed  traces  of  re- 
cent drinking,  his  hands  wandered  restlessly  from  his 
coat-collar  to  his  pockets,  his  clothes  were  shabby 
and  torn.  But  when  the  Squire  looked  round  him, 
as  though  invoking  some  one  or  som.ething  to  aid 
him  against  these  deserters,  Gregson  came  for- 
ward. 

‘ If  you  want  any  help,  Mr.  Mannering,  I’m  your 
man.  I suppose  these  fellows  ’ll  lend  a hand  with 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 


133 


carrying  these  things  up  to  the  gates.  They’ll  not 
risk  their  precious  skins  much  by  doing  that ! ’ 

Perley  and  Dodge  replied  with  alacrity  that  so 
far  they  would  gladly  oblige  the  Squire,  and  they 
began  to  shoulder  the  hurdles. 

It  was  at  that  moment  that  the  Squire  caught  the 
eye  of  the  black-coated  man,  who  had  been  observing 
the  whole  proceedings  from  about  ten  yards  off. 
The  expression  of  the  eye  roused  in  Mannering  an 
itching  desire  to  lay  immediate  hands  on  its  pos- 
sessor. He  strode  up  to  him. 

‘ I don’t  know,  sir,  why  you  stand  there,  looking 
on  at  things  that  are  no  business  of  yours,’  he  said 
angrily.  ‘ If  you  want  to  know  your  way  anywhere, 
one  of  my  men  here  will  show  you.’ 

‘ Oh,  thank  you,’  said  the  other  tranquilly.  ‘ I 
know  my  w’ay  perfectly.’  He  held  up  an  orTiance 
map,  which  he  carried  in  his  hand.  ‘ I’m  an  engi- 
neer. I come  from  London,  and  I’m  bound  for  a 
job  at  Crewe.  But  I’m  very  fond  of  country  walk- 
ing when  the  weather’s  good.  I’ve  walked  about 
a good  bit  of  England,  in  my  time,  but  this  part  is 
a bit  I don’t  know.  So,  as  I had  two  days’  holiday, 
I thought  I’d  have  a look  at  your  place  on  the  road. 
And  as  you  are  aware,  Mr.  Mannering  ’ — he  pointed 
to  the  map — ‘ this  is  a right-of-way,  and  you  can’t 
turn  me  out.’ 

‘ All  the  same,  sir,  you  are  on  my  property,’  said 
the  Squire  hotly,  ‘ and  a right-of-way  only  means  a 
right  of  passing  through.  I should  be  much  obliged 
if  you  would  hurry  yourself  a little.’ 

The  other  laughed.  He  was  a slim  fellow,  appar- 
ently about  thirty,  in  a fresh,  well-cut,  serge  suit. 
A book  was  sticking  out  of  one  pocket;  he  returned 
the  map  to  the  other.  He  had  the  sallow  look  of 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 


134 

one  who  has  spent  years  in  hot  workshops,  and  a 
slight  curvature  of  the  spine;  but  his  eyes  were 
singularly,  audaciously  bright,  and  all  his  move- 
ments alert  and  decided. 

‘ It’s  not  often  one  sees  such  a typical  bit  of 
feudalism  as  this,’  he  said,  without  the  smallest 
embarrassment,  pointing  to  the  old  men,  the  gates, 
the  hurdles,  which  Gregson  v/as  now  placing  in 
position,  and  finally  the  Squire  himself.  ‘ I wouldn’t 
have  missed  it  for  worlds.  It’s  as  good  as  a play. 
You’re  fighting  the  County  Agricultural  War  Com- 
mittee, I understand  from  these  old  fellows,  because 
they  want  a bit  of  your  park  to  grow  more  food?  ’ 
‘Well,  sir,  and  how  does  it  matter  to  you?’ 

‘ Oh,  it  matters  a great  deal,’  said  the  other,  smil- 
ing. ‘ I want  to  be  able  to  tell  my  grandchildren — 
when  I get  ’em — that  I once  saw  this  kind  of  thing. 
They’ll  never  believe  me.  For  in  their  day,  you  see, 
there’ll  be  no  squires,  and  no  parks.  The  land  ’ll 
be  the  people’s,  and  all  this  kind  of  thing — your 
gates,  your  servants,  your  fine  house,  your  game- 
coverts,  and  all  the  rest  of  it — will  be  like  a bit  of 
history  out  of  Noah’s  x^rk.’ 

The  Squire  looked  at  him  attentively. 

‘ You’re  a queer  kind  of  chap,’  he  said,  half  con- 
temptuously. ‘ I suppose  you’re  one  of  those  revo- 
lutionary fellows  the  papers  talk  about?  ’ 

‘ That’s  it.  Only  there  are  a good  many  of  us. 
When  the  time  comes,’  he  nodded  pleasantly,  ‘ we 
shall  know  how  to  deal  with  you.’ 

‘ It’ll  take  a good  deal  longer  than  you  think.’ 
said  the  Squire  coolly;  ‘unless  indeed  you  borrow 
the  chap  from  Russia  who’s  invented  the  machine 
for  cutting  off  five  hundred  heads  at  once,  by  elec- 
tricity. That  might  hasten  matters  a little  I ’ 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 


135 

He  had  by  now  entirely  recovered  his  chaffing, 
reckless  temper,  and  was  half  enjoying  the  en- 
counter. 

‘ Oh,  not  so  long,’  said  the  other.  ‘ You’re  just 
passing  a Franchise  Bill  that  will  astonish  you  when 
you  see  the  results!  You  perhaps  may  just  live  it 
out — yes,  you  may  die  peaceably  in  that  house 
yonder.  But  your  son,  if  you  have  one — that’ll  be 
another  pair  of  boots  I ’ 

‘ You  and  your  pals  would  be  much  better  em- 
ployed in  stopping  this  accursed  war  than  in  talking 
revolutionary  drivel  like  that,’  said  the  Squire,  with 
energy. 

‘ Oh  ho!  so  you  want  to  stop  the  war?  ’ said  the 
other,  lifting  his  eyebrows.  ‘ I should  like  to  know 
why.’ 

The  Squire  went  off  at  once  into  one  of  his  usual 
tirades  as  to  ‘ slavery  ’ and  ‘ liberty.’  ‘ You’re  made 
to  work,  or  fight!  willy-nilly.  That  man’s  turned 
out  of  his  farm — willy-nilly.  I’m  made  to  turn  him 
out — willy-nilly.  The  common  law  of  England’s 
trampled  under  foot.  What’s  worth  it?  Nothing!’, 

The  Squire’s  thin  countenance  glowed  fanatically. 
With  his  arms  akimbo  he  stood  towering  over  the 
younger  man,  his  white  hair  glistening  in  the  sun. 

The  other  smiled,  as  he  looked  his  assailant  up 
and  down. 

‘Who’s  the  revolutionist  now?’  he  said  quietly. 
‘ What’s  the  war  cost  yow,  Mr.  Mannering,  com- 
pared to  what  it’s  cost  me  and  my  pals?  This  is 
the  first  holiday  I’ve  had  for  three  years.  Twice 
I’ve  dropped  like  dead  in  the  shop — strained  heart, 
says  the  doctor.  No  time  to  eat! — no  time  to  sleep! 
— come  out  for  an  hour,  wolf  some  brandy  down 
and  go  back  again,  and  then  they  tell  you  you’re 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 


136 

a drunken  brute ! “ Shells  and  guns ! ” says  the 

Government — “more  shells! — more  guns! — deliver 
the  goods ! ” And  we’ve  delivered  ’em.  My  two 
brothers  are  dead  in  France.  I shall  be  “ combed  ” 
out  directly,  and  a “ sniper  ” will  get  me,  perhaps, 
three  days  after  I get  to  the  trenches,  as  he  did 
my  young  brother.  What  then?  Oh,  I know, 
there’s  some  of  us — the  young  lads  mostly — who’ve 
got  out  of  hand,  and  ’ll  give  the  Government  trouble 
perhaps  before  they’ve  done.  Who  can  v'onder, 
when  you  see  the  beastly  towns  they  come  out  of, 
and  the  life  they  were  reared  in!  And  none  of  us 
are  going  to  stand  profiteering,  and  broken  pledges, 
and  that  kind  of  thing!  ’ — a sudden  note  of  passion 
rushed  into  the  man’s  voice.  ‘ But  after  all,  when 
all’s  said  and  done,  this  is  England!  ’ he  turned  with 
a fine,  unconscious  gesture  to  the  woods  and  green 
spaces  behind  him,  and  the  blue  distances  of  plain — 
‘ and  we’re  Englishmen — and  it’s  touch  and  go 
whether  England’s  going  to  come  out  or  go  under; 
and  if  we  can’t  pay  the  Huns  for  what  they’ve  done 
in  Belgium — what  they’ve  done  in  France  ! — what 
they’ve  done  to  our  men  on  the  sea ! — well,  it’s  a 
devil’s  world! — and  I’d  sooner  be  quit  of  it,  it  don’t 
matter  how ! ’ 

The  man’s  slight  frame  shook  under  the  force  of 
his  testimony.  His  eyes  held  the  Squire,  who  was 
for  the  moment  silenced.  Then  the  engineer  turned 
on  his  heel  with  a laugh: 

‘ Well,  good-day  to  you,  Mr.  Mannering.  Go 
and  fasten  up  your  gates!  If  I’m  for  minding 
D.O.R.A.  and  winning  the  war.  I’m  a good  Socialist 
all  the  same.  I shall  be  for  making  short  work  with 
you,  when  our  day  comes.’  And  touching  his  hat, 
he  walked  rapidly  away. 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 


137 


The  Squire  straightened  his  shoulders,  and  looked 
round  to  see  whether  they  had  been  overheard.  But 
the  labourers  carrying  the  hurdles,  and  Gregson 
burdened  with  the  coil  of  wire,  had  not  been  listen- 
ing. They  stood  now  in  a group  close  to  the  main 
gate  waiting  for  their  leader.  The  Squire  walked 
up  to  them,  picking  his  way  among  various  articles 
of  furniture,  a cradle,  some  bedding,  a trunk  or 
two,  which  lay  scattered  in  the  road  in  front  of  the 
white  casemented  lodge.  The  wife  of  old  Perley, 
the  lodge-keeper,  was  standing  on  her  doorstep. 

‘ Well,  no  offence.  Muster  Mannering,  but  Perley 
and  me’s  going  over  to  my  sister’s  at  Wood  End 
to-night,  afore  the  milingtary  come.’  The  black- 
browed  elderly  woman  spoke  respectfully  but 
firmly. 

‘ What  silly  nonsense  have  you  got  into  your 
heads?  ’ shouted  the  Squire.  ‘ You  know  very  well 
all  that’s  going  to  happen  is  that  the  County  Council 
are  going  to  send  their  motor-plough  over,  and 
they’ll  have  to  break  down  the  gates  to  get  in,  so 
that  the  law  can  settle  it.  What’s  come  to  you  that 
you’re  all  scuttling  like  a pack  of  rabbits?  It’s  not 
your  skins  that’ll  pay  for  it — it’s  mine ! ’ 

‘ We’re  told — Perley  an’  me — as  there’ll  be  miling- 
tary,’  said  Mrs.  Perley,  unmoved.  ‘ Leastways, 
they’ll  bring  a road-engine,  Perley  says,  as’ll  make 
short  work  o’  them  gates.  And  folks  do  say  as  they 
might  even  bring  a tank  along;  you  know,  sir,  as 
there’s  plenty  of  ’em,  and  not  fur  off.’  She  nodded 
mysteriously  towards  a quarter,  never  mentioned  in 
the  neighbourhood,  where  these  Behemoths  of  war 
had  a training-ground.  ‘ And  Perley  and  me,  we 
can’t  have  nowt  to  do  wi’  such  things.  We  wasn’t 
brought  up  to  ’em.’ 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 


138 

‘ Well,  if  you  go,  you  don’t  come  back!  ’ said  the 
Squire,  shaking  a threatening  hand. 

‘ Thank  you,  sir.  But  there’s  work  for  all  on  us 
nowadays,’  said  the  woman  placidly. 

Then  the  Squire,  with  Gregson’s  help,  set  himself 
fiercely  to  the  business.  In  little  more  than  an  hour, 
and  with  the  help  of  some  pieces  of  rope,  the  gate 
had  been  firmly  barricaded  with  hurdles  and  barbed 
wire,  wicket-gate  and  all,  and  the  Squire,  taking  a 
poster  in  large  letters  from  his  pocket,  afiixed  it  to 
the  outside  of  the  gate.  It  signified  to  all  and  sun- 
dry that  the  Chetworth  gate  of  Mannering  Park 
could  now  only  be  opened  by  violence,  and  that  those 
offering  such  violence  would  be  proceeded  against 
according  to  law. 

When  it  was  done,  the  Squire  first  addressed  a 
few  scathing  words  to  the  pair  of  park-keepers, 
who  smoked  Imperturbably  through  them,  and  then 
transferred  a pound-note  to  the  ready  palm  of  Greg- 
son,  who  was,  it  seemed,  on  the  point  of  accepting 
work  as  a stock-keeper  from  another  of  the  Squire’s 
farmers — a brother  culprit,  only  less  ‘ hustled  ’ than 
himself  by  the  formidable  County  Committee,  which 
was  rapidly  putting  the  fear  of  God  into  every  bad 
husbandman  throughout  Brookshire.  Then  the 
Squire  hurried  off  homewards. 

His  chief  thought  now  was — what  would  that  most 
opinionated  young  woman  at  home  say  to  him?  He 
was  at  once  burning  to  have  It  out  with  her,  and — 
though  he  would  have  scorned  to  confess  It — nervous 
as  to  how  he  might  get  through  the  encounter. 

Fate,  however,  ordained  that  his  thoughts  about 
the  person  who  had  now  grown  so  important  to  his 
household  should  be  affected,  before  he  saw  her 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 


139 


again,  from  a new  quarter.  The  Rector,  Mr.  Penn- 
ington, quite  unaware  of  the  doughty  deeds  that  had 
been  done  at  the  Chetworth  gate,  and  coming  from 
his  own  house  which  stood  within  the  park  enclosure, 
ran  into  the  Squire  at  a cross-road. 

The  Squire  looked  at  him  askance,  and  kept  his 
own  counsel.  The  Rector  was  a man  of  peace,  and 
had  once  or  twice  tried  to  dissuade  the  Squire  from 
his  proposed  acts  of  war.  The  Squire,  therefore, 
did  not  mean  to  discuss  them  with  him.  But,  in 
general,  he  and  the  Rector  were  good  friends.  The 
Rector  was  a bit  of  a man  of  the  world,  and  never 
attempted  to  put  a quart  into  a pint-pot.  He  took 
the  Squire  as  he  found  him,  and  would  have  missed 
the  hospitalities  of  the  Hall — or  rather  the  conver- 
sation they  implied — if  he  had  been  obliged  to  forgo 
them.  The  Squire  on  his  side  had  observed  with 
approval  that  the  Rector  was  a fair  scholar,  and  a 
bad  beggar.  He  could  take  up  quotations  from 
Horace,  and  he  was  content  with  such  parish  sub- 
scriptions as  the  Squire  had  given  for  twenty  years, 
and  was  firmly  minded  not  to  increase. 

But  here  also  the  arrival  of  Elizabeth  had  stirred 
the  waters.  For  the  Rector  was  actually  on  his  way 
to  try  and  get  a new  subscription  out  of  the  Squire; 
and  it  was  Elizabeth’s  doing. 

‘ You  remember  that  child  of  old  Leonard  the 
blacksmith?’  said  the  Rector  eagerly;  ‘a  shocking 
case  of  bow-legs,  one  of  the  worst  I ever  saw.  But 
Miss  Bremerton’s  taken  endless  trouble.  And  now 
we’ve  got  an  admission  for  him  to  the  Orthopaedic 
hospital.  But  there’s  a few  pounds  to  be  raised  for 
his  maintenance — it  will  be  a question  of  months. 
I was  just  coming  over  to  see  if  you  would  give  me 
a little,’  he  wound  up,  in  a tone  of  apology. 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 


140 

The  Squire,  with  a brow  all  clouds,  observed  that 
when  children  were  bow-legged  it  was  entirely  the 
fault  of  their  mothers. 

‘ Ah,  yes,’  said  the  Rector,  with  a sigh.  ‘ Mrs. 
Leonard  is  a slatternly  woman — no  doubt  of  that. 

when  you’ve  said  that  you  haven’t  cured  the 
child.’ 

The  Squire  ungraciously  said  he  would  consider 
it;  and  the  Rector,  knowing  well  that  he  would  get 
no  more  at  a first  assault,  let  the  child  alone,  and 
concentrated  on  the  topic  of  Elizabeth. 

‘ An  extraordinarily  capable  creature,’  he  said 
warmly,  ‘ and  a good  heart  besides.  You  were 
indeed  lucky  to  find  her,  and  you  are  very  wise  to 
give  her  her  head.  The  village  folk  can’t  say 
enough  about  her.’ 

The  Squire  felt  his  mouth  twitching.  With  some 
horses,  is  there  any  choice — but  Hobson’s — as  to 
‘giving’  them  their  head? 

‘ Yes,  she’s  clever,’  he  said  grudgingly. 

‘ And  it  was  only  to-day,’  pursued  the  Rector, 
‘ that  I heard  her  story  from  a lady,  a friend  of  my 
wife’s,  who’s  been  spending  Sunday  with  us.  She 
seems  to  have  met  Miss  Bremerton  and  her  family 
at  Richmond  a year  or  so  ago,  where  everybody  who 
knew  them  had  a great  respect  for  them.  The 
mother  was  a nice,  gentle  body,  but  this  elder  daugh- 
ter had  most  of  the  wits — though  there’s  a boy  in 
a Worcester  regiment  they’re  all  very  fond  and 
proud  of — and  she  always  looked  after  the  others, 
since  the  father — who  was  a Civil  servant — died, 
six  years  ago.  Then  two  years  since,  she  engaged 
herself  to  a young  Yeomanry  officer ’ 

‘ Eh — what? — what  do  you  say? — a Yeomanry 
officer?  ’ said  the  Squire,  looking  round. 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 


141 

‘ Precisely — a Yeomanry  officer.  They  were  en- 
gaged and  apparently  very  happy.  He  was  a hand- 
some, upstanding  fellow,  very  popular  with  women. 
Then  he  went  out  to  Egypt  with  his  regiment,  and 
it  was  intended  they  should  marry  when  he  got  his 
first  leave.  But  presently  his  letters  began  to  change. 
Then  they  only  came  at  long  intervals.  And  at  last 
they  stopped.  He  had  complained  once  of  an  attack 
of  sunstroke,  and  she  was  v/retched,  thinking  he  was 
ill.  At  last  a letter  reached  her  from  a brother  offi- 
cer, who  seems  to  have  behaved  very  kindly — with 
the  explanation.  Her  fiance  had  got  Into  the  clutches 
— no  one  exactly  knew  how — of  a Greek  family 
living  in  Alexandria,  and  had  compromised  himself 
so  badly  with  one  of  the  daughters,  that  the  father, 
a cunning  old  Greek  merchant,  had  compelled  him 
to  marry  her.  Threats  of  exposure,  and  all  the  rest  I 
The  brother  officer  hinted  at  a plot — that  the  poor 
fellow  had  been  trapped,  and  was  more  sinned 
against  than  sinning.  However,  there  it  was.  He 
was  married  to  the  Greek  girl;  Miss  Bremerton’s 
letters  were  returned;  and  the  thing  was  at  an  end. 
Our  friend  says  she  behaved  splendidly.  She  went 
on  with  her  work  In  the  War  Trade  Department — ■ 
shirked  nothing  and  no  one — till  suddenly,  about  six 
months  ago,  she  had  a bad  breakdown ’ 

‘What  do  you  mean?’  said  the  Squire  abruptly. 
‘ She  was  111?  ’ 

‘ A combination  of  overwork  and  Influenza,  I 
should  think;  but  no  doubt  the  tragedy  had  a good 
deal  to  do  with  It.  She  went  down  to  stay  for  a 
couple  of  m.onths  with  an  uncle  In  Dorsetshire,  and 
got  better.  Then  the  family  lost  some  money, 
through  a solicitor’s  mismanagement — enough  any- 
way to  make  a great  deal  of  difference.  The  mother 


142  ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 

too  broke  down  in  health-  Miss  Bremerton  came 
home  at  once,  and  took  everything  on  her  own  shoul- 
ders, You  remember,  she  heard  of  your  secretaryship 
from  that  Balliol  man  you  wrote  to — who  had  been 
a tutor  of  hers  when  she  was  at  Somerville?  She 
determined  to  apply  for  it.  It  was  more  money  than 
she  was  getting  in  London,  and  she  had  to  provide 
for  her  mother  and  to  educate  her  young  sister. 
Plu.cky  woman ! All  this  interested  me  very  much, 
I confess.  I have  formed  such  a high  opinion  of 
her!  And  I thought  it  would  interest  you.’ 

‘ I don’t  know  what  we  any  of  us  have  to  do  with 
it,’  grumbled  the  Squire. 

The  Rector  drew  himself  up  a little,  resenting 
the  implied  rebuke. 

‘ I hope  I don’t  seem  to  you  to  be  carrying  gossip 
for  gossip’s  sake,’  he  said,  rather  indignantly. 

‘ Nothing  was  further  from  my  intention.  I like 
and  admire  Miss  Bremerton  a great  deal  too  much.’ 

‘Well,  I don’t  know  what  we  can  do,’  said  the 
Squire  testily.  ‘ We  can’t  unmarry  the  man.’ 

The  Rector  pulled  up  short,  and  offered  a chilly 
good-bye.  As  he  hurried  on  towards  the  village — 
little  knowing  the  obstacles  he  would  encounter  in 
his  path — he  said  to  himself  that  the  Squire’s  man- 
ners were  really  past  endurance.  One  could  hardly 
imagine  that  Miss  Bremerton  would  be  long  able  to 
put  up  with  them. 

The  Squire  meanwhile  pursued  the  rest  of  his 
way,  wrapped  in  rather  disagreeable  reflections.  He 
was  not  at  all  grateful  to  the  Rector  for  telling  him 
the  story — quite  the  reverse.  It  altered  his  m.ental 
attitude  towards  his  secretary;  introduced  disturbing 
ideas,  which  he  had  no  use  for.  He  had  taken  for 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 


143 


granted  that  she  was  one  of  those  single  women  of 
the  present  day  whose  intellectual  interests  are 
enough  for  them,  who  have  never  really  felt  the  call 
of  passion,  and  can  be  trusted  to  look  at  life  sensibly 
without  taking  love  and  marriage  into  account.  To 
think  of  Miss  Bremerton  as  having  suffered  severely 
from  a love-affair — broken  her  heart,  and  injured 
her  health  over  it — was  most  distracting.  If  it  had 
happened  once — why,  of  course,  it  might  happen 
again.  She  was  not  immune;  in  spite  of  all  her  gifts, 
she  was  susceptible,  and  it  was  a horrid  nuisance. 

He  went  home  all  on  edge,  what  with  the  adven- 
ture of  the  gates,  the  encounter  with  the  engineer 
fellow,  and  now  the  revelations  of  the  Rector. 

As  he  approached  the  house,  he  saw  from  the  old 
clock  in  the  gable  of  the  northern  front  that  it  was 
two  o’clock.  He  was  half-an-hour  late  for  lunch. 
Luncheon,  in  fact,  must  be  over.  And  indeed,  as 
he  passed  along  the  library  windows,  he  saw  Eliza- 
beth’s figure  at  her  desk.  It  annoyed  him  that  she 
should  have  gone  back  to  work  so  soon  after  her 
meal.  He  had  constantly  made  it  plain  to  her  that 
she  was  not  expected  to  begin  work  of  an  afternoon 
till  four  o’clock.  She  would  overdo  it;  and  then 
she  would  break  down  again  as  she  had  done  before. 
In  his  selfishness,  his  growing  dependence  on  her 
companionship  and  her  help,  he  began  to  dread  the 
mere  chance. 

How  agreeable,  and  how  fruitful,  their  days  of 
work  had  been  lately!  He  had  been,  of  course, 
annoyed  sometimes  by  her  preoccupation  with  the 
war  news  of  the  morning.  Actually,  this  Caporetto 
business,  the  Italian  disaster,  had  played  the  mis- 
chief with  her  for  a day  or  two — and  the  news  from 
Russia.  Any  bad  news,  indeed,  seemed  to  haunt 


144 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 


her;  her  colour  faded  away;  and  if  he  dictated  notes 
to  her,  they  would  be  occasionally  inaccurate.  But 
that  was  seldom.  In  general,  he  felt  that  he  had 
made  great  strides  during  the  preceding  weeks; 
that,  thanks  to  her,  the  book  he  was  attempting  was 
actually  coming  into  shape.  She  had  suggested  so 
much — sometimes  by  her  knowledge,  sometimes  by 
her  ignorance.  And  always  so  modest — so  teach- 
able— so  docile. 

Docile?  The  word  passing  through  his  mind 
again,  as  it  had  in  the  morning,  roused  in  him 
mingled  laughter  and  uneasiness.  For  outside  their 
classical  work  together,  nothing  indeed  could  be  less 
docile  than  Miss  Bremerton.  How  she  had  v/ith- 
stood  him  in  the  matter  of  the  codicil ! Fie  could  see 
her  still,  as  she  stood  there  with  her  hands  behind 
her,  defying  him.  And  that  morning  also,  when  she 
had  spoken  her  mind  on  the  project  of  the  gates. 

Well,  now,  he  had  to  go  in  and  tell  her  that  the 
deed  was  done,  and  the  park  was  closed. 

He  crept  round  to  a side  door,  nervous  lest  she 
should  perceive  him  from  the  library,  and  made 
Forest  get  him  some  lunch.  Then  he  hung  about 
the  hall  smoking.  It  was  ridiculous — nonsensical — 
but  he  admitted  to  himself  that  he  shrank  from  fac- 
ing her. 

At  last  a third  cigarette  put  the  requisite  courage 
into  him,  and  he  walked  slowly  to  the  library.  As 
he  entered  the  room,  Elizabeth  rose  from  her  chair. 

She  stood  there  waiting  for  his  orders,  or  his 
report — her  quiet  eyes  upon  him. 

He  told  himself  not  to  be  a fool,  and  throwing 
away  his  cigarette,  he  walked  up  to  her,  and  said  in 
a tone  of  bravado : 

‘ Well,  the  barricades  are  up ! ’ 


CHAPTER  VIII 


The  Squire  having  shot  his  bolt,  looked  anxi- 
ously for  the  effect  of  it. 

Elizabeth,  apparently,  took  it  calmly.  She 
was  standing  with  one  hand  on  the  table  behind 
her,  and  the  autumn  sun  streaming  in  through  the 
western  windows  caught  the  little  golden  curls  on 
her  temples,  and  the  one  or  two  small  adornments 
that  she  habitually  wore,  especially  a Greek  coin — 
a gold  stater — hanging  on  a slender  chain  round  her 
neck.  In  the  Squire’s  eyes,  the  stately  figure  in  plain 
black,  with  the  brilliant  head  and  hands,  had  in  some 
way  gathered  into  itself  the  significance  of  the  li- 
brary. All  the  background  of  books,  with  its  pale 
and  yet  rich  harmony  of  tone,  the  glass  cases  with 
their  bronzes  and  terra-cottas,  the  statues,  the  papers 
on  the  table,  the  few  flowers  that  were  never  want- 
ing to  Elizabeth’s  corner,  the  taste  with  which  the 
furniture  had  been  re-arranged,  the  general  elegance 
and  refinement  of  the  big  room  in  fact,  since  Eliza- 
beth had  reduced  it  from  chaos  to  order,  were  now 
related  to  her  rather  than  to  him.  He  could  not 
now  think  of  the  room  without  her.  She  had  be- 
come in  this  short  time  so  markedly  its  presiding 
spirit.  ‘ Let  there  be  order  and  beauty ! ’ she  had 
said,  instead  of  dirt  and  confusion;  and  the  order 
and  beauty  were  there. 

But  the  presiding  spirit  was  now  surveying  him, 
with  eyes  that  seemed  to  have  been  watchfully  with- 
drawn, under  puckered  brows. 

145 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 


146 

‘ I don’t  understand,’  said  Elizabeth.  ‘ You  have 
fastened  up  the  gates?’ 

‘ I have,’  said  the  Squire  jocularly.  ‘ Mrs.  Perley 
believes  the  Committee  will  bring  a tank!  That 
would  be  a sight  worth  seeing.’ 

‘ You  really  want  to  stop  them  from  ploughing 
up  that  land?  ’ 

‘ I do.  I have  offered  them  other  land.’ 

Elizabeth  hesitated. 

‘ Don’t  you  believe  what  the  Government  say,  Mr. 
Mannering?  ’ 

‘What  do  they  say?’ 

‘ That  everything  depends  upon  whether  we  shall 
have  food  enough  to  hold  out?  That  we  can’t  win 
the  war  unless  we  can  grow  more  food  ourselves?’ 

‘ That’s  the  Government’s  affair.’  The  Squire  sat 
down  at  his  own  table  and  began  to  look  out  a 
pen. 

‘Well  now.  Miss  Bremerton,  I don’t  think  we 
need  spend  any  more  time  over  this  tiresome  busi- 
ness. I’ve  already  lost  the  morning.  Suppose  we 
get  on  with  the  work  we  were  doing  yesterday?  ’ 

He  turned  an  amicable  countenance  towards  her. 
She  on  her  side  moved  a little  towards  a window 
near  her  table,  and  looked  out  of  it,  as  though  re- 
flecting. After  a minute  or  two  he  asked  himself 
with  a vague  anxiety  what  was  wrong  with  her. 
Her  manner  was  certainly  unusual. 

Suddenly  she  turned,  and  came  half  across  the 
room  towards  him. 

‘May  I speak  to  you,  please,  Mr.  Mannering?’ 

‘By  all  means.  Is  there  anything  amiss?’ 

‘ I think  we  agreed  on  a month’s  notice,  on  either 
side.  I should  be  glad  if  you  would  kindly  accept 
my  notice  as  from  today.’ 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 


147 

The  Squire  rose  violently,  and  thrust  back  his 
chair. 

‘ So  that’s  what  you  have  been  cogitating  in  my 
absence  ? ’ 

‘ Not  at  all,’  said  Elizabeth  mildly.  ‘ I have  made 
a complete  list  of  the  passages  you  asked  for.’ 

She  pointed  to  her  table. 

‘ Yet  all  the  time  you  were  planning  this  move- — 
you  were  making  up  your  mind  what  to  do?  ’ 

She  hesitated. 

‘ I was  often  afraid  it  would  have  to  be  done,’ 
she  said  at  last. 

‘ And  pray  may  I ask  your  reasons  ? ’ The  Squire’s 
tone  was  sarcastic.  ‘ I should  like  to  know  in  what 
I have  failed  to  satisfy  you.  I suppose  you  thought 
I was  rude  to  you  this  morning?’ 

‘ Oh,  that  didn’t  matter,’  she  said  hastily.  ‘ The 
fact  is,  Mr.  Mannering,’  she  crossed  her  hands 
quietly  in  front  of  her,  ‘ you  put  responsibilities  on 
me  that  I am  not  prepared  to  carry.  I feel  I must 
give  them  up.’ 

‘ I thought  you  liked  responsibility.’ 

Elizabeth  coloured. 

‘ It — it  depends  what  sort.  I begin  to  see  now 
that  my  principles — and  opinions — are  so  different 
from  yours  that,  if  we  go  further,  I shall  either  be 
disappointing  you  or — doing  what  I think  wrong.’ 

‘ You  can’t  conceive  ever  giving  up  your  opinion 
to  mine  ? ’ 

‘No!  ’ Elizabeth  shook  her  head  with  decision. 
‘ No ! that  I really  can’t  conceive  1 ’ 

‘ Upon  my  word  1 ’ said  the  Squire,  fairly  taken 
aback.  They  confronted  each  other.  Elizabeth  be- 
gan to  look  disturbed.  Her  eyelids  flickered  once 
or  twice. 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 


148 

‘ I think  we  ought  to  be  quite  serious,”  she  said 
hurriedly.  ‘ I don’t  want  you  to  misunderstand  me. 
If  you  knew  how  I valued  this  opportunity  of  doing 
this  classical  work  with  you!  It  is  nonderfuJ  ’ — 
her  voice  wavered  a little,  or  the  Squire  fancied  it — 
‘ what  you  have  taught  me  even  in  this  short  time. 
I am  proud  to  have  been  your  secretary — and  your 
pupil.  If  It  were  only  that  ’ — she  paused — ‘ but  you 
have  also  been  so  kind  as  to — to  take  me  Into  your 
confidence — to  let  me  do  things  for  you,  outside  of 
what  you  engaged  me  for.  I see  plainly  that — 
if  I go  on  with  this — I shall  become  your  secretary — 
your  agent  In  fact — for  a great  many  things  besides 
Greek.’ 

Then  she  made  an  Impetuous  step  forward. 

‘ Mr.  Mannering! — the  atmosphere  of  this  house 
chokes  me  1 ’ 

The  Squire  dropped  back  Into  his  chair,  watching 
her  with  eyes  in  which  he  tried — not  very  success- 
fully— to  keep  dignity  alive. 

‘Your  reasons?’ 

‘I  am  with  the  country!^  she  said,  not  without 
signs  of  agitation;  ‘and  you  seem  to  me  to  care 
nothing  about  the  country  I ’ 

Disputation  was  never  unwelcome  to  the  Squire. 
He  riposted. 

‘ Of  course,  we  mean  entirely  different  things  by 
the  word.’ 

She  threw  back  her  head  slightly,  with  a gesture 
of  scorn. 

‘ We  might  argue  that,  if  it  were  peace-time.  But 
this  is  war!  Your  country — my  country — has  the 
German  grip  at  her  throat.  A few  months — and 
we  are  saved — or  broken! — the  country  that  gave 
us  birth — all  we  have — all  we  are ! ’ Her  words 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 


149 


came  short  and  thick,  and  she  had  turned  very 
white.  ‘ And  in  this  house  there  is  never,  in  your 
presence,  a word  of  the  war ! — of  the  men  who  are 
dying  by  land  and  sea — dying,  that  you  and  I may 
sit  here  in  peace — that  you  may  talk  to  me  about 
Greek  poetry,  and  put  spokes  in  the  wheels  of  those 
who  are  trying  to  feed  us — and  defend  us — and  beat 
off  Germany.  Nothing  for  the  wounded! — nothing 
for  the  hospitals!  And  you  won’t  let  Pamela  do 
anything!  Not  a farthing  for  the  Red  Cross!  You 
made  me  write  a letter  last  week  refusing  a sub- 
scription. And  then,  when  they  only  ask  you  to  let 
your  land  grow  food — that  the  German  pirates  and 
murderers  mayn’t  starve  us  into  a horrible  submis- 
sion— then  you  bar  your  gates — you  make  endless 
trouble,  when  the  country  wants  every  hour  of  every 
man’s  time — you,  in  your  position,  give  the  lead  to 
every  shirker  and  coward!  No!  I can’t  bear  it 
any  more ! I must  go.  I have  had  happy  times 
here — I love  the  work — I am  very  glad  to  earn  the 
money,  for  my  people  want  it.  But  I must  go.  My 
heart — my  conscience  won’t  let  me  stay!  ’ 

She  turned  from  him,  with  an  unconscious  gesture 
which  seemed  to  the  Squire  to  be  somewhat  mingled 
with  that  of  the  great  Victory  towering  behind  her, 
and  went  quickly  back  to  her  table,  where  she  began 
with  trembling  hands  to  put  her  papers  together. 

The  Squire  tried  to  laugh  it  off. 

‘ And  all  this,’  he  said  with  a sneer,  ‘ because  I 
tied  up  a few  gates ! ’ 

She  made  no  reply.  He  was  conscious  of  mingled 
dismay  and  fury. 

‘ You  will  stay  your  month?’  he  inquired  at  last, 
coldly.  ‘ You  don’t  propose,  I imagine,  to  leave  me 
at  a moment’s  notice  ? ’ 


1 50  ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 

She  was  bending  over  her  table,  and  did  not  look 
up. 

‘ Oh  yes,  I will  stay  my  month.’ 

He  sat  speechless,  watching  her.  She  very  quickly 
finished  what  she  was  doing,  and  taking  up  her  note- 
book, and  some  half-written  letters,  she  left  the 
room. 

‘ A pretty  state  of  things ! ’ said  the  Squire,  and 
thrusting  his  long  hands  into  his  pockets  he  began  to 
pace  the  library,  in  the  kind  of  temper  that  may  be 
imagined — given  the  man  and  the  circumstances. 

The  difference,  however,  between  this  occasion 
and  others  lay  in  the  fact  that  the  penalties  of  temper 
had  grown  so  unjustly  heavy.  The  Squire  felt  him- 
self hideously  aggrieved.  Abominable  ! — that  he 
should  be  hindered  in  his  just  rights  and  opinions 
by  this  indirect  pressure  from  a woman,  whom  he 
couldn’t  wrestle  with  and  floor,  as  he  would  a man, 
because  of  her  sex.  That  was  always  the  way  with 
women.  No  real  equality — no  give  and  take — in 
spite  of  all  the  suffrage  talk.  Their  weakness  was 
their  tyranny.  Weakness  indeed ! They  were  much 
stronger  than  men.  God  help  England  when  they 
got  the  vote ! The  Greeks  said  it — Euripides  said 
it.  But,  of  course,  the  Greeks  have  said  everything! 
Hecuba  to  Agamem.non,  for  instance,  when  she  is 
planning  the  murder  of  the  Thracian  King: 

‘ Leave  it  to  me  ! — and  my  Trojan  women ! ’ 

And  Agamemnon’s  scoffing  reply — poor  idiot! — 
‘ How  can  women  get  the  better  of  men?  ’ 

And  Hecuba’s  ghastly  low-voiced  ‘ In  a crowd 
we  are  terrible ! ’ — Sezvov  to  n’K-PfOo' — as  she  and  her 
women  turn  upon  the  Thracian,  put  out  his  eyes, 
and  tear  his  children  limb  from  limb. 

But  one  woman  might  be  quite  enough  to  upset 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 


151 

a quiet  man’s  way  of  living!  The  moral  pressure 
of  it  was  so  iniquitous!  Your  convictions  or  your 
life ! It  was  the  language  of  a footpad. 

To  pull  down  the  hurdles,  and  tamely  let  in  Chick- 
sands  and  his  minions — how  odious!  To  part  with 
Elizabeth  Bremerton  and  to  be  reduced  again  to 
the  old  chaos  and  helplessness — how  still  more 
odious ! As  to  the  war — so  like  a woman  to  suppose 
that  any  war  was  ever  fought  with  unanimity  by 
any  country!  Look  at  the  Crimea! — the  Boer 
War! — the  Napoleonic  Wars  themselves,  if  it  came 
to  that!  Why  was  Fox  a patriot,  and  he  a traitor? 
Let  her  answer  that! 

And  all  the  time,  Elizabeth’s  light  touch  upon 
his  will  was  like  the  curb  on  a stubborn  horse.  Once 
as  he  passed  her  table  angry  curiosity  took  him  to 
look  at  some  finished  work  that  was  lying  there. 
Perfection!  Intelligence,  accuracy,  the  clearest  of 
scripts!  All  his  hints  taken — and  bettered  in  the 
taking.  Beside  it  lay  some  slovenly  manuscripts 
of  Levasseur’s.  He  could  see  the  corners  of  Miss 
Bremerton’s  mouth  go  up  as  she  looked  it  through. 
Well,  now  he  was  to  be  left  to  Levasseur’s  tender 
mercies — after  all  he  had  taught  her!  And  the 
accounts,  and  the  estate,  and  these  infernal  rations, 
that  no  human  being  could  understand ! 

The  Squire’s  self-pity  rose  upon  him  like  a flood. 
Just  at  the  worst,  he  heard  a knock  at  the  library 
door.  Before  he  could  say  ‘ Come  in,’  it  was  hur- 
riedly opened,  and  his  two  married  daughters  con- 
fronted him — Pamela,  too,  behind  them. 

‘Father!’  cried  Mrs.  Gaddesden,  ‘you  must 
please  let  us  come  and  speak  to  you ! ’ 

What  on  earth  was  wrong  with  them?  Alice — 
for  whom  her  father  had  more  contempt  than  affec- 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 


152 

tion — looked  merely  frightened;  but  Margaret’s 
eyes  were  angry,  and  Pamela’s  reproachful.  The 
Squire  braced  himself  to  endurance. 

‘What  do  you  want  with  me?’ 

‘Father! — we  never  thought  you  meant  It  seri- 
ously! And  now  Forest  says  all  the  gates  are  closed, 
and  that  the  village  is  up  In  arms.  The  labourers 
declare  that  If  the  County  plough  is  turned  back  to- 
morrow, they’ll  break  them  down  themselves.  And 
when  we’re  all  likely  to  be  starving  In  six  months ! ’ 

‘ You  really  can’t  expect  working-folk  to  stand 
quietly  by  and  see  such  a thing!  ’ said  Margaret  in 
her  intensest  voice.  ‘ Do,  father,  let  me  send  Forest 
at  once  to  tell  the  gardeners  to  open  all  the  gates.’ 

The  Squire  defied  her  to  do  any  such  thing.  What 
was  all  the  silly  fuss  about?  The  County  people 
could  open  the  gates  In  half-an-hour  If  they  wanted. 
It  was  a demonstration — a protest — a case  to  go 
to  the  Courts  on.  He  had  principles — If  no  one 
else  had.  And  if  they  weren’t  other  people’s  prin- 
ciples, what  did  it  matter?  He  was  ready  to  stand 
by  them,  to  go  to  prison  for  them.  He  folded  his 
arms  magnificently. 

Pamela  laughed  excitedly,  and  shook  her  head. 

‘ Oh,  no,  father,  you  w'on’t  be  a hero — only  a 
laughinp--s*-ock ! That’s  v,'hat  Desmond  minds  so 
much.  They  won’t  send  you  to  prison.  Some  tire- 
some old  Judge  will  give  you  a talking-to  in  Court, 
and  vou  won’t  be  able  to  answer  him  back.  And 
then  thev’ll  fine  you — and  we  shall  be  a little  more 
bovcotted  than  we  were  before ! That’s  all  that’ll 
haDne*! ' ’ 

‘“Boycotted”? — what  do  you  mean?’  said  the 
Squire  haughtily. 

‘ Oh,  father,  can’t  you  feel  it?’  cried  Pamela. 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 


153 


‘ As  if  one  man  could  pit  himself  against  a na- 
tion ! ’ said  Mrs.  Strang,  in  that  manner  of  con- 
trolled emotion  which  the  Squire  detested.  He 
rarely  felt  emotion,  but  when  he  did,  he  let  it 

go-  . 

Peremptorily  he  turned  them  all  out,  giving  strict 
orders  that  nothing  he  had  done  should  be  interfered 
with.  Then  he  attempted  to  go  on  with  some  work 
of  his  own,  but  he  could  not  bring  his  mind  to  bear. 
Finally  he  seized  his  hat  and  went  out  into  the  park 
to  see  if  the  populace  were  really  rising.  It  was  a 
cold  October  evening,  with  a waxing  moon,  and  a 
wind  that  was  rapidly  bringing  the  dead  leaves  to 
earth.  Not  a soul  was  to  be  seen!  Only  once  the 
Squire  thought  he  heard  the  sound  of  distant  guns; 
and  two  aeroplanes  crossed  rapidly  overhead  sailing 
into  the  western  sky.  Everywhere  the  war! — the 
cursed,  cursed  obsession  of  it! 

For  the  first  time  there  was  a breach  in  the 
Squire’s  defences,  which  for  three  years  he  had  kept 
up  almost  intact.  He  had  put  literature,  and  art, 
and  the  joys  of  the  connoisseur  between  himself  and 
the  measureless  human  ill  around  him.  It  had 
spoilt  his  personal  life,  had  interfered  with  his 
travels,  his  diggings,  his  friendships  with  foreign 
scholars.  Well,  then,  as  far  as  he  could  he  would 
take  no  account  of  it,  would  shut  it  out,  and  rail 
at  the  men  and  the  forces  that  made  it.  He  barely 
looked  at  the  newspapers;  he  never  touched  a book 
dealing  with  the  war.  It  seemed  to  him  a triumph 
of  mind  and  intelligence  when  he  succeeded  in  shut- 
ting out  the  hurly-burly  altogether.  Only,  when  in 
the  name  of  the  war  his  private  freedom  and  prop- 
erty were  interfered  with,  he  had  flamed  out  into 
hysterical  revolt.  Old  aristocratic  instincts  came  to 


154 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 


the  aid  of  passionate  will,  and,  perhaps,  of  an  un- 
easy conscience. 

And  now  in  the  man’s  vain  but  not  ignoble  soul 
there  stirred  a first  passing  terror  of  what  the  war 
might  do  with  him,  if  he  were  forced  to  feel  it — to 
let  it  in.  He  saw  it  as  a veiled  Presence  at  the  Door 
— and  struggled  with  it  blindly. 

He  was  just  turning  back  to  the  house,  when  he 
saw  a figure  approaching  in  the  distance  which  he 
recognized.  It  was  that  of  a man,  once  a farmer  of 
his,  and  a decent  fellow — oh,  that  he  confessed! — 
with  whom  he  had  had  a long  quarrel  over  a miser- 
able sum  of  money,  claimed  by  the  tenant  when  he 
left  his  farm,  and  disputed  by  the  landlord. 

The  dispute  had  gone  on  for  two  years.  The 
Squire’s  law-costs  had  long  since  swallowed  up  the 
original  money  in  dispute. 

Then  Miss  Bremerton,  to  whom  the  Squire  had 
dictated  some  letters  in  connection  with  the  squabble, 
had  quietly  made  a suggestion — had  asked  leave  to 
write  a letter  on  approval.  For  sheer  boredom  with 
the  whole  business,  the  Squire  had  approved  and  sent 
the  letter. 

Then,  this  very  morning,  a reply  from  the  farmer. 
Grateful  astonishment!  ‘Of  course  I am  ready  to 
meet  you,  sir — I always  have  been.  I will  get  my 
solicitor  to  put  what  you  proposed  in  your  letter  of 
this  morning  into  shape  immediately,  and  will  leave 
it  signed  at  your  door  to-night.  I trust  this  trouble 
is  now  over.  It  has  been  a great  grief  to  me.’ 

And  now  there  was  the  man  bringing  the  letter. 
One  worry  done  with!  How  many  more  the  same 
patient  hand  might  have  dealt  with,  if  its  exacting 
owner  hadn’t  thrown  up  her  work — so  preposter- 
ously ! 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 


155 

The  Squire  gave  an  angry  sigh,  slipped  out  of  the 
visitor’s  way  through  a shrubbery,  and  returned  to 
his  library.  Fires  had  begun,  and  the  glow  of  the 
burning  logs  shone  through  the  room.  The  return 
to  this  home  of  his  chief  studies  and  pursuits  during 
many  delightful  years  was  always,  at  any  hour  of 
the  day  or  year,  a moment  of  pleasure  to  the  Squire. 
Here  was  shelter,  here  was  escape- — both  from  the 
troubles  he  had  brought  upon  himself,  and  from  the 
world  tumult  outside,  the  work  of  crazy  politicians 
and  incompetent  diplomats.  But  if  there  was  any 
season  when  the  long  crowded  room  was  more  at- 
tractive than  at  any  other,  it  was  in  these  autumn 
evenings  when  firelight  and  twilight  mingled,  and 
the  natural  • ‘ homing  ’ instinct  of  the  Northerner, 
accustomed  through  long  ages  to  spend  long  winters 
mostly  indoors,  stirred  in  his  blood. 

His  books,  too,  spoke  to  him;  and  the  beautiful 
dim  forms  of  bronzes  and  terra-cottas,  with  all  their 
suggestions  of  high  poetry  and  consummate  art, 
breathing  from  the  youth  of  the  world.  He  under- 
stood— passionately — the  jealous  and  exclusive  tem- 
per of  the  artist.  It  was  his  own  temper — though  he 
was  no  practising  artist — and  accounted  largely  for 
his  actions.  What  are  politics — or  social  reform — * 
or  religion — or  morals — compared  to  art?  The  true 
artist,  it  has  been  pleaded  again  and  again,  has 
no  country.  He  follows  Beauty  wherever  she  pitches 
her  tent — ‘ an  hourly  neighbour.’  Woe  to  the  inter- 
ests that  conflict  with  this  interest!  He  simply 
drives  them  out  of  doors,  and  turns  the  key  upon 
them  I 

This,  in  fact,  was  the  Squire’s  defence  of  himself, 
whenever  he  troubled  to  defend  himself.  As  to  the 
pettinesses  of  a domineering  and  irritable  temper, 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 


156 

cherished  through  long  years,  and  flying  out  on  the 
smallest  occasions — the  Squire  conveniently  forgot 
them,  in  those  rare  moments  of  self-vision  -which 
were  all  the  gods  allowed  him.  Of  course  he  was 
master  in  his  own  house  and  estate — why  not?  Of 
course  he  fought  those  who  would  interfere  with 
him,  war  or  no  war — why  not? 

He  sat  down  to  his  table,  very  sorry  for  himself, 
and  hotly  indignant  with  an  unreasonable  woman. 
The  absence  of  her  figure  from  the  table  on  the 
further  side  of  the  room  worked  upon  his  nerves. 
She  had  promised  at  least  to  stay  her  month.  These 
were  working  hours.  What  was  she  doing?  She 
could  hardly  be  packing  already ! 

He  tried  to  give  his  attention  to  the  notes  he  had 
been  working  at  the  day  before.  Presently  he  wanted 
a reference — a line,  from  the  Philoctetes.  ‘ The 
Lemnlan  fire’ — where  on  earth  was  the  passage? 
He  lifted  his  head  instinctively.  If  only  she  had 
been  there — it  was  monstrous  that  she  wasn’t  there ! 
— he  would  just  have  thrown  the  question  across  the 
room,  and  got  an  answer.  Her  verbal  memory  was 
astonishing — much  better  than  his. 

He  must,  of  course,  get  up  and  look  out  the  refer- 
ence for  himself.  And  the  same  with  others.  In  an 
hour’s  time  he  had  accomplished  scarcely  anything, 
and  a settled  gloom  descended  upon  him.  That  was 
the  worst  of  accustoming  yourself  to  crutches  and 
helps.  When  they  were  unscrupulously  and  unjustly 
taken  away,  a man  was  w'orse  off  than  if  he  had 
never  had  them. 

The  evening  post  came  in.  The  Squire  looked 
through  it  with  disgust.  He  perceived  that  several 
letters  were  answers  to  some  he  had  allowed  his 
secretary  to  draft  and  send  in  his  name — generally 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 


157 


in  reply  to  exasperated  correspondents  who  had  been 
kept  waiting  for  months,  and  trampled  on  to  boot. 

Now  he  supposed  she  would  refuse  to  have  any- 
thing to  do  with  this  kind  of  thing!  She  would  keep 
to  the  letter  of  her  bargain,  for  the  few  weeks  that 
remained.  Greek  he  might  expect  from  her — but 
not  business. 

He  opened  one  or  two.  Yes,  there  was  no  doubt 
she  was  a clever  woman — unpardonably  and  detest- 
ably clever.  Affairs  which  had  been  mountains  for 
years  had  suddenly  become  mole-hills.  In  this  new 
phase  he  felt  himself  more  helpless  than  ever  to 
deal  Vv^ith  them.  She,  on  the  contrary,  might  have 
put  everything  straight — she  might  have  done  any- 
thing with  him — almost — that  she  pleased.  He 
would  have  got  rid  of  his  old  fool  of  an  agent  and 
put  in  another,  that  she  approved  of,  if  she  had 
wished. 

But  no  1 — she  must  try  and  dictate  to  him  in 
public — on  a matter  of  public  action.  She  must 
have  everything  her  own  way.  Opinionated,  self- 
conceited  creature  1 

When  tea-time  came  he  rang  for  Forest,  and  de- 
manded that  a cup  of  tea  should  be  brought  him  to 
the  library.  But  as  the  butler  was  leaving  the  room, 
he  recalled  him. 

‘ And  tell  Miss  Bremerton  that  I shall  be  glad 
of  her  company  when  she  has  finished  her  tea.’ 

Forest  hesitated. 

‘ I think,  sir.  Miss  Bremerton  Is  out.’ 

Out! — was  she?  Her  own  mistress  already! 

‘ Send  Miss  Pamela  here  at  once,’  he  commanded. 

In  a minute  or  two  a girl’s  quick  step  was  heard, 
and  Pamela  ran  in. 

‘Yes,  father?’ 


158  ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 

‘Where  is  Miss  Bremerton?’  The  Squire  was 
standing  in  front  of  the  fire,  angrily  erect.  He  had 
delivered  his  question  in  the  tone  of  an  ultimatum. 

‘ Why,  father,  you’ve  forgotten ! She  arranged 
with  you  that  she  was  to  go  to  tea  at  the  Rectory, 
and  I’ve  just  got  a note  from  Mrs.  Pennington  to 
ask  if  they  may  keep  her  for  the  evening.  They’ll 
send  her  home.’ 

‘ I remember  no  such  arrangement,’  said  the 
Squire,  in  a fury. 

‘ Oh,  father — why,  I heard  her  speak  to  you  ! And 
I’m  sure  she  wanted  a little  break.  She’s  been  look- 
ing dead-tired  lately,  and  she  said  she  had  a headache 
at  lunch.’ 

‘ Very  well.  That’ll  do,’  said  the  Squire,  and 
Pamela  departed,  virtuously  conscious  of  having 
stood  by  Elizabeth,  though  she  disliked  her. 

The  Squire  felt  himself  generally  cornered.  No 
doubt  she  was  now  telling  her  story  to  the  Penning- 
tons, who,  of  course,  would  disapprove  the  gates 
affair.  In  any  case.  The  long  hours  before  dinner 
passed  away.  The  Squire  thought  them  Interminable. 
Dinner  was  a gloomy  and  embarrassed  function. 
His  daughters  were  afraid  of  rousing  a fresh  whirl- 
wind of  temper.  If  the  gates  were  mentioned;  and 
nothing  else  was  interesting.  The  meal  was  short 
and  spare,  and  the  Squire  noticed  for  the  first  time 
that  while  meat  was  offered  to  him,  the  others  fed 
on  fish  and  vegetables.  All  to  put  him  In  the  wrong, 
of  course ! 

After  dinner  he  went  back  to  the  library.  Work 
was  impossible.  He  hung  over  the  fire  smoking,  or 
turning  over  the  pages  of  a fresh  section  of  the 
catalogue  which  Elizabeth  had  placed — complete — 
on  his  desk  that  morning. 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN  159 

It  seemed  to  him  that  all  the  powers  of  mischief 
had  risen  against  him.  The  recent  investigation 
of  his  affairs  made  by  Elizabeth  at  his  express  wish, 
slight  and  preliminary  though  it  was,  had  shown 
him  what  he  had  long  and  obstinately  refused  to 
see — that  the  estate  had  seriously  gone  down  in 
value  during  the  preceding  five  years;  that  he  had 
a dozen  scraps  and  disputes  on  his  hands,  more 
than  enough  to  rasp  the  nerves  of  any  ordinary  man 
— and  as  far  as  nerves  were  concerned,  he  knew 
very  well  that  he  was  not  an  ordinary  man;  that, 
in  short,  he  was  impoverished  and  embarrassed;  his 
agent  was  a scandal  and  must  be  dismissed,  and  his 
new  lawyers,  a grasping,  incompetent  crew.  For  a 
moment,  indeed,  he  had  had  a glimpse  of  a clear 
sky.  A woman,  who  seemed  to  have  the  same  kind 
of  business  faculty  than  many  Frenchwomen  possess, 
had  laid  hands  on  his  skein  of  troubles,  and  might 
have  unravelled  them.  But  she  had  thrown  him 
over.  In  a little  while  he  would  have  to  let  Man- 
nering — for  who  would  buy  an  estate  in  such  a 
pickle? — sell  his  collections,  and  go  and  live  in  a 
flat  in  West  Kensington.  Then  he  hoped  his  ene- 
mies— Chicksands  in  particular — ^would  be  satisfied. 

But  these,  to  do  him  justice,  were  not  the  chief 
thoughts,  not  the  considerations  in  his  mind  that 
smarted  most.  Another  woman  secretary  or  woman 
accountant — for,  after  all,  clever  women  with  busi- 
ness training  are  now  as  thick  as  blackberries — 
might  have  helped  him  to  put  his  affairs  straight; 
but  she  would  not  have  been  a Miss  Bremerton, 
with  her  scholarship,  her  taste,  her  love  of  the  beau- 
tiful things  that  he  loved.  He  seemed  to  see  her 
fair  skin  flushing  with  pleasure  as  they  went  through 
a Greek  chorus  together,  or  to  watch  her  tenderly 


i6o  ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 

handling  a bronze,  or  holding  a Tanagra  figure  to 
the  light. 

Of  course  some  stupid  creatures  might  think  he 
was  falling  in  love  with  her — wanting  to  marry  her. 
He  laughed  the  charge  to  scorn.  No ! but  he  con- 
fessed her  comradeship,  her  friendship,  had  begun 
to  mean  a good  deal  to  him.  For  twenty  years  he 
had  lived  in  loneliness.  Now,  it  seemed,  he  had 
found  a friend,  in  these  days  when  the  new  inde- 
pendence of  women  opens  a thousand  fresh  possi- 
bilities not  only  to  them,  but  to  men  also. 

Well,  well,  it  was  all  over!  Better  make  up  his 
mind  to  it. 

He  went  to  the  window,  as  it  was  nearing  ten 
o’clock,  and  looked  out.  It  was  foggy  still,  the 
moon  and  stars  scarcely  visible.  He  hoped  they 
would  have  at  least  the  sense  at  the  Rectory  to  pro- 
vide her  with  a lantern,  for  under  the  trees  the  road 
was  very  dark. 

Oh,  far  in  the  distance,  a tv/Inkling  light!  Good! 
The  Squire  hastily  shut  the  window,  and  resumed 
his  pacing.  Presently  he  thought  he  heard  the  house 
door  open  and  shut,  and  a little  while  after  the  li- 
brary clock  struck  ten. 

Now  it  v/ould  be  only  the  natural  thing  to  go  and 
say  good-night  to  his  daughters,  and,  possibly,  to 
Inquire  after  a headache. 

The  Squire  accordingly  emerged.  In  the  hall  he 
found  his  three  daughters  engaged  In  lighting  their 
candles  at  the  Chippendale  table,  where  for  about 
a hundred  and  fifty  years  the  ladies  of  Mannering 
had  been  accustomed  to  perforrn  that  rite. 

The  master  of  the  house  inquired  coldly  whether 
Miss  Bremerton  had  returned  safely.  ‘ Oh  yes,’ 
said  his  daughter  Margaret,  ‘ but  she  went  up  to 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN  i6i 

bed  at  once.  She  hasn’t  got  rid  of  her  headache.’ 

Mrs.  Strang’s  stiff  manner,  and  the  silence  of  the 
others  showed  the  Squire  that  he  was  deep  in  his 
daughters’  black  books.  Was  he  also  charged  with 
Miss  Bremerton’s  headache?  Did  any  of  them 
guess  what  had  happened?  He  fancied  from  the 
puzzled  look  in  Pamela’s  eyes  as  she  said  good-night 
to  him  that  she  guessed  something. 

Well,  he  wasn’t  going  to  tell  them  anything.  He 
went  back  to  the  library,  and  presently  Pamela,  in 
her  room  upstairs,  heard  first  the  library  bell,  then 
the  steps  of  Forest  crossing  the  hall,  and  finally  a 
conversation  between  the  Squire  and  the  butler  which 
seemed  to  last  some  time. 

It  was  in  the  very  early  morning— -between  four 
and  five — that  Elizabeth  was  wakened,  first  by  vague 
movements  in  the  house,  and  then  by  what  seemed 
to  be  cautious  voices  outside.  She  drew  a curtain 
back  and  looked  out— -a  misty  morning,  between 
darkness  and  dawn,  and  trees  standing  on  the  grass 
in  dim  robes  of  amethyst  and  gold.  Two  men  in 
the  middle  distance  were  going  away  from  the  house. 
She  craned  her  neck.  Yes — no  doubt  of  it!  The 
Squire  and  Forest.  What  could  they  be  about  at 
that  hour  of  the  morning?  They  v/ere  going,  no 
doubt,  to  inspect  the  barricades!  Yet  Forest  him- 
self had  told  her  that  nothing  would  induce  him 
to  take  a hand  in  the  ‘ row.’ 

It  was  strange;  but  she  was  too  weary  and  de- 
pressed to  give  it  much  thought.  What  was  she 
going  to  do  now?  The  world  seemed  emptily  open 
before  her  once  more,  chill  and  lonely  as  the  autumn 
morning. 


CHAPTER  IX 


ON  the  following  morning  the  breakfast  at  Man- 
nering  was  a very  tame  and  silent  affair. 
Forest  was  not  in  attendance,  and  the  under 
housemaid,  who  commonly  replaced  him  when  ab- 
sent, could  not  explain  his  non-appearance.  He  and 
his  wife  lived  in  a cottage  beyond  the  stables,  and 
all  that  could  be  said  was  that  he  ‘ had  not  come  in.’ 

The  Squire  also  wUs  absent.  But  as  his  breakfast 
habits  were  erratic,  owing  to  the  fact  that  he  slept 
badly  and  was  often  up  and  working  at  strange  sea- 
sons of  the  night,  neither  of  his  daughters  took  any 
notice.  Elizabeth  did  not  feel  inclined  to  say  any- 
thing of  her  own  observations  in  the  small  hours. 
If  the  Squire  and  Forest  had  been  working  at  the 
barricade  together,  they  were  perhaps  sleeping  off 
their  exertions.  Or  the  Squire  was  already  on  the 
spot,  waiting  for  the  fray?  Meanwhile,  out  of 
doors,  a thick  grey  mist  spread  over  the  park. 

So  she  sat  silent  like  the  other  two — (Mrs.  Gad- 
desden  was  of  course  in  bed) — wondering  from  time 
to  time  when  and  how  she  should  announce  her  de- 
parture. 

Pamela  meanwhile  was  thinking  of  the  letter  she 
would  have  to  write  to  Desmond  about  the  day’s 
proceedings,  and  was  Impatient  to  be  off  as  soon  as 
possible  for  the  scene  of  action.  Once  or  twice  it 
occurred  to  her  to  notice  that  Miss  Bremerton  was 
looking  rather  pale  and  depressed.  But  the  fact 
only  made  Pamela  feel  prickly.  ‘ If  father  does  get 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN  163 

into  a row,  what  does  it  really  matter  to  her.  She’s 
not  responsible ! — she’s  not  one  of  us ! ’ 

Immediately  after  breakfast,  Pamela  disappeared. 
She  made  her  way  quietly  through  the  park,  where 
the  dank  mist  still  clung  to  the  trees  from  which  the 
leaf  was  dropping  silently,  continuously.  The  grass 
was  all  cobwebs.  Every  now  and  then  the  head  of  a 
deer  would  emerge  from  the  dripping  fern  only  to 
be  swallowed  up  again  in  the  fog. 

Could  a motor-plough  work  in  a fog? 

Presently,  she  who  knew  every  inch  of  the  ground 
and  every  tree  upon  it,  became  aware  that  she  was 
close  to  the  Chetworth  gate.  Suddenly  the  rattle  of 
an  engine  and  some  men’s  voices  caught  her  ear. 
The  plough,  sure  enough!  The  sound  of  it  was 
becoming  common  in  the  country-side.  Then  as 
the  mist  thinned  and  drifted  she  saw  the  thing  plain 
— the  puffing  engine,  one  man  driving  and  another 
following,  while  in  their  wake  ran  the  black  glistening 
furrow,  where  the  grass  had  been. 

And  here  was  the  gate.  Pamela  stood  open- 
mouthed.  Where  were  the  elaborate  defences  and 
barricades  of  which  rumour  had  been  full  the  night 
before  ? The  big  gate  swung  idly  on  its  hinges.  And 
in  front  of  it  stood  two  men  placidly  smoking,  in 
company  with  the  village  policeman.  Not  a trace  of 
any  obstruction — no  hurdles,  no  barbed  wire,  only  a 
few  ends  of  rope  lying  in  the  road. 

Then,  looking  round,  she  perceived  old  Perley, 
with  a bag  of  ferrets  in  his  hand,  emerging  from 
the  mist,  and  she  ran  up  to  him  breathlessly. 

‘So  they’ve  come,  Perley!  Was  it  they  forced 
the  gate  ? ’ 

Perley  scratched  his  head  with  his  free  hand. 

‘ Well,  it’s  an  uncommon  queer  thing.  Miss — ^but 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 


164 

I can’t  tell  yer  who  opened  them  gates!  I come 
along  here  about  seven  o’clock  this  mornin’,  and  the 
fog  was  so  thick  yo  couldn’t  see  nothin’  beyond  a 
yard  or  two.  But  when  I got  up  to  the  gates,  there 
they  were  open,  just  as  you  see  ’em  now.  At  first  I 
thought  there  was  summat  wrong — that  my  eyes 
wasn’t  what  they  used  to  was.  But  they  was  all 
right.’ 

‘ And  you  saw  the  gates  shut  last  night?  ’ 

‘ Barred  up,  so  as  you  couldn’t  move  ’em.  Miss ! — 
not  without  a crowbar  or  two,  an’  a couple  of  men. 
I thowt  it  was  perhaps  some  village  chaps  larkin’ 
as  had  done  it.  But  it  ain’t  none  o’  them.  It  beats 
me ! ’ 

Pamela  looked  at  the  two  men  smoking  by  the 
gate — representatives,  very  likely,  of  the  Inspection 
Sub-Committee.  Should  she  go  up  and  question 
them?  But  some  inherited  instinct  deterred  her.  She 
was  glad  the  country  should  have  the  land  and  the 
corn.  She  had  no  sympathy  with  her  father.  And 
yet  all  the  same  when  she  actually  sav/  Demos  the 
outsider  forcibly  in  possession  of  Mannering  land, 
the  Mannering  spirit  kicked  a little.  She  would 
find  out  what  had  happened  from  some  of  their 
own  people. 

So  after  watching  the  County  Council  plough  for 
a while  as  it  clove  its  way  up  and  down  the  park 
under  the  struggling  sun  which  was  gradually  scat- 
tering the  fog — her  young  intelligence  quite  aware 
all  the  time  of  the  significance  of  the  sight — she 
turned  back  towards  the  house.  And  presently,  ad- 
vancing to  meet  her,  she  perceived  the  figure  of 
Elizabeth  Bremerton — coming,  no  doubt,  to  get 
picturesque  details  on  the  spot  for  the  letter  she  had 
promised  to  write  to  a certain  artillery  officer.  A 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN  165 

quick  flame  of  jealousy  ran  through  the  girl’s  mind. 

Miss  Bremerton  quickened  her  step. 

‘ So  they’re  open ! ’ she  said  eagerly,  as  she  and 
Pamela  met.  ‘ And  there’s  nothing  broken,  or — or 
lying  about ! ’ 

She  looked  in  bewilderment  at  the  unlittered  road 
and  swinging  gate. 

‘ They  were  open,  Perley  says,  first  thing  this 
morning.  He  came  by  about  seven.’ 

‘ Before  the  plough  arrived?  ’ 

‘ Yes-’ 

They  stood  still,  trying  to  puzzle  it  out.  Then  a 
sudden  laugh  crossed  Elizabeth’s  face. 

‘Perhaps  there  were  no  barricades!  Perhaps 
your  father  was  taking  us  all  in  I ’ 

‘ Not  at  all,’  said  Pamela  drily.  ‘ Perley  saw  the 
gates  firmly  barred  with  hurdles  and  barbed  wire, 
and  all  tied  up  with  rope,  when  he  and  his  wife  left 
the  Lodge  late  last  night.’ 

Elizabeth  suddenly  coloured  brightly.  Why, 
Pamela  could  not  imagine.  Her  fair  skin  made  it 
impossible  for  a flush  to  pass  unnoticed.  But  why 
should  she  flush? 

Elizabeth  walked  on  rapidly,  her  eyes  on  the 
ground.  When  she  raised  them  it  was  to  look  rathef 
steadily  at  her  companion. 

‘ I think  perhaps  I had  better  tell  you  at  once — ■ 
I am  very  sorry! — but  I shall  be  leaving  you  in  a 
month.  I told  your  father  so  last  night.’ 

Pamela  looked  the  astonishment  she  felt.  For  the 
moment  she  was  tongue-tied.  Was  she  glad  or 
sorry?  She  did  not  know.  But  the  instinct  of  good 
manners  came  to  her  aid. 

‘Can’t  you  stand  us?’  she  said  bluntly.  ‘I  ex^ 
pect  you  can’t.’ 


i66 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 


Elizabeth  laughed  uncomfortably. 

‘ Why,  you’ve  all  been  so  kind  to  me.  But  I 
think  perhaps  ’ — she  paused,  trying  to  find  her 
words — ‘ I didn’t  quite  understand — when  I came — 
how  much  I still  wanted  to  be  doing  things  for  the 
war ’ 

‘ Why,  you  might  do  heaps  of  things ! ’ cried  Pam- 
ela. ‘ You  have  been  doing  them.  Taking  an  in- 
terest in  the  farms,  I mean — and  all  that.’ 

‘ Well,  but ’ Elizabeth’s  brow  puckered. 

Then  she  broke  into  a frank  laugh — ‘ After  all,  that 
wasn’t  what  I was  engaged  for,  was  It?  ’ 

‘ No — but  you  seemed  to  like  to  do  It.  And  it’s 
war-work,’  said  Pamela,  inexorably. 

Elizabeth  was  dismally  conscious  of  her  own  ap- 
parent Inconsistencies.  It  seemed  best  to  be  frank. 

‘ The  fact  is — I think  I’d  better  tell  you — I tried 
yesterday  to  get  your  father  to  give  up  his  plans 
about  the  gates.  And  when  he  wouldn’t,  and  it 
seemed  likely  that  there  might  be  legal  proceedings 
and — and  a great  fuss — In  w’hich  naturally  he  would 
want  his  secretary  to  help  him ’ 

‘You  just  felt  you  couldn’t?  Well,  of  course  I 
understand  that,’  said  Pamela  fervently.  ‘ But  then, 
you  see,’  she  laughed,  ‘ there  isn’t  going  to  be  a 
fuss.  The  plough  just  walked  In,  and  the  fifty  acres 
will  be  done  in  no  time.’ 

Elizabeth  looked  as  she  felt — worried. 

‘ It’s  very  puzzling.  I wonder  what  happened? 
But  I am  afraid  there  will  be  other  things  where  your 
father  and  I shall  disagree — if,  that  is,  he  wants 
me  to  do  so  much  else  for  him  than  the  Greek 
work ’ 

‘ But  you  might  say  that  you  wouldn’t  do  anything 
else  but  the  Greek  work?  ’ 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN  167 

‘Yes,  I might,’  said  Elizabeth  smiling,  ‘but  once 
I’ve  begun ’ 

‘You  couldn’t  keep  to  it? — father  couldn’t  keep 
to  it?  ’ 

Elizabeth  shook  her  head  decidedly.  A little  smile 
played  about  her  lips,  as  much  as  to  say,  ‘ I am  a 
managing  woman  and  you  must  take  me  at  that.  “ II 
ne  faut  pas  sortir  de  son  caractfere.”  ’ Pamela,  look- 
ing at  her,  admired  her  for  the  first  time.  And  now 
that  there  was  to  be  no  more  question — apparently — 
of  correspondence  with  Arthur  Chicksands,  her 
mood  changed  impulsively. 

‘Well,  I’m  very  sorry!  ’ she  said — and  then,  sin- 
cerely, ‘ I don’t  know  how  the  place  will  get  on.’ 

‘ Thank  you,’  said  Elizabeth.  Her  look  twinkled 
a little.  ‘ But  you  don’t  know  what  I might  be  after 
if  I stayed  I ’ 

Pamela  laughed  out,  and  the  two  walked  home, 
better  friends  than  they  had  been  yet,  Elizabeth 
asking  that  the  news  of  her  resignation  of  her  post 
might  be  regarded  as  confidential  for  a few  days. 

When  they  reached  the  house,  Pamela  went  into 
the  morning-room  to  tell  her  sisters  of  the  tame  end- 
ing to  all  their  alarms,  while  Elizabeth  hurried  to 
the  library.  She  was  due  there  at  half-past  ten,  and 
she  was  only  just  in  time.  Would  the  Squire  be 
there?  She  remembered  that  she  had  to  apologize 
for  her  absence  of  the  day  before. 

She  felt  her  pulse  thumping  a little  as  she  opened 
the  library  door.  There  was  undoubtedly  something 
about  the  Squire — some  queer  magnetism — born  per- 
haps of  his  very  restlessness  and  unexpectedness — 
that  made  life  in  his  neighbourhood  seldom  less  than 
interesting.  His  temper  this  morning  would  prob- 
ably be  of  the  worst.  Something,  or  some  one,  had 


i68 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 


defeated  all  his  schemes  for  a magnificent  assertion 
of  the  rights  of  man.  His  park  was  in  the  hands  of 
the  invaders.  The  public  plough  was  impudently  at 
work.  And  at  the  same  moment  his  secretary  had 
given  warning,  and  the  nev/  catalogue — the  darling 
of  his  heart — would  be  thrown  on  his  hands.  It 
would  not  be  surprising  to  find  him  rampant.  Eliza- 
beth entered  almost  on  tip-toe,  prepared  to  be  all 
that  was  meek  and  conciliating,  so  far  as  was  com- 
patible with  her  month’s  notice. 

A tall  figure  rose  from  the  Squire’s  table  and 
made  her  a formal  bow. 

‘ Good-morning,  Miss  Bremerton.  I expected 
your  assistance  yesterday  afternoon,  but  you  had,  I 
understand,  made  an  engagement?’ 

‘ I asked  you — a few  days  ago,’  said  Elizabeth, 
mildly  confronting  him.  ‘ I am  sorry  if  it  incon- 
venienced you.’ 

‘ Oh,  all  right — all  right,’  said  the  Squire  hastily. 
‘ I had  forgotten  all  about  it.  Well,  anyway,  we 
have  lost  a great  deal  of  time.’  His  voice  conveyed 
reproach.  His  greenish  eyes  were  fierily  bent  upon 
her. 

Elizabeth  sat  down  at  her  table  without  replv, 
and  chose  a pen.  The  morning’s  work  generally 
consisted  of  descriptions  of  vases  and  bronzes  in 
the  Mannering  collection,  dictated  by  the  Squire, 
and  illustrated  often  by  a number  of  references  to 
classical  writers,  given  both  in  Greek  and  English. 
The  labour  of  looking  out  and  verifying  the  refer- 
ences was  considerable,  and  the  Squire’s  testy  temoer 
was  never  more  testy  than  when  it  was  quarrelling 
with  the  difficulties  of  translation. 

‘ Kindly  take  down,’  he  said  peremptorily. 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 


169 


Elizabeth  began : 

‘ “ No.  190.  Greek  vase,  from  a tomb  excavated 
at  Mitylene  in  1902.  Fine  work  of  the  fifth  century 
B.  C.  Subject:  Penelope’s  Web.  Penelope  is  seated 
at  the  loom.  Beside  her  are  the  figures  of  a young 
man  and  two  females — probably  Telemachus  and 
two  hand-maidens.  The  three  male  figures  in  the 
background  may  represent  the  suitors.  Size,  23 
inches  high;  diameter,  ii  inches.  Perfect,  except 
for  a restoration  in  one  of  the  handles.” 

‘ Have  you  got  that?  ’ 

‘ Go  on  please.  “ This  vase  is  of  course  an  illus- 
tration of  the  well-known  passage  in  the  Odyssey, 
Book  21.  103.  I take  Mr.  Samuel  Butler’s  transla- 
tion, which  is  lively  and  modern  and  much  to  be 
preferred  to  the  heavy  archaisms  of  the  other  fel- 
lows.”  ’ 

Elizabeth  gave  a slight  cough.  The  Squire  looked 
at  her  sharply. 

‘ Oh,  you  think  that’s  not  dignified?  Well,  have 
it  as  you  like.’ 

Elizabeth  altered  the  phrase  to  ‘ other  translators.’ 
The  Squire  resumed.  ‘ “ Antinous,  one  of  the  suit- 
ors, is  speaking:  ‘We  could  see  her  working  on 
her  great  web  all  day  long,  but  at  night  she  would 
unpick  the  stitches  again  by  torchlight.  She  fooled 
us  in  this  way  for  three  years,  and  we  never  found 
her  out,  but  as  time  wore  on,  and  she  was  now  in 
her  fourth  year,  one  of  her  maids,  who  knew  what 
she  was  doing,  told  us,  and  we  caught  her  in  the  act 
of  undoing  her  work,  so  she  had  to  finish  it,  whether 
she  would  or  no.  . . .’  I tell  you,  we  never  heard 
of  such  a woman;  we  know  all  about  Tyro,  Alcmena, 
Mycene,  and  the  famous  women  of  old,  but  they 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 


170 

were  nothing  to  your  mother — any  one  of  them.” — 
And  yet  she  was  only  undoing  her  own  work! — she 
was  not  forcing  a grown  man  to  undo  his  1 ’ said  the 
Squire,  with  a sudden  rush  of  voice  and  speech. 

Elizabeth  looked  up  astonished. 

‘ Am  I to  put  that  down  ? ’ 

The  Squire  threw  away  the  book  he  was  holding. 
His  shining  white  hair  seemed  positively  to  bristle 
on  his  head,  his  long  legs  twined  and  untwined  them- 
selves. 

‘ Don’t  pretend,  please,  that  you  don’t  know  what 
part  you’ve  been  playing  in  this  affair ! ’ he  said  with 
sarcasm.  ‘ It  took  Forest  and  me  three  good  hours 
this  morning  to  take  down  as  fine  a barricade  as  ever 
I saw  put  up.  I’m  stiff  with  it  still.  British  liberties 
have  been  thrown  to  the  dogs — ywainS?  ovrsxa — 
all  because  of  a woman  1 And  there  you  sit,  as 
though  nothing  had  happened!  Yet  I chanced  to 
see  you  just  now,  coming  back  with  Pamela ! ’ 

Elizabeth’s  flush  this  time  dyed  her  all  crimson. 
She  sat,  pen  in  hand,  staring  at  her  employer. 

‘ I don’t  understand  what  you  mean,  Mr.  Manner- 
ing.’  At  which  her  conscience  whispered  to  her 
sharply,  ‘ You  guessed  it  already — in  the  park!  ’ 

The  Squire  jumped  to  his  feet,  and  came  to  stand 
excitedly  in  front  of  her,  his  hands  thrust  into  the 
high  pockets  of  his  waistcoat. 

‘ I am  extremely  sorry ! ’ he  said,  with  that  grand 
seigneur  politeness  he  could  put  on  when  he  chose — 
‘but  I am  not  able  to  credit  that  statement.  You 
make  it  honestly,  of  course,  but  that  a person  of 
your  intelligence,  when  you  saw  those  gates,  failed 
to  put  twT>  and  two  together,  well ! ’ — the  Squire 
shook  his  head,  and  shrugged  his  shoulders,  became, 
in  fact,  one  protesting  gesture — ‘ if  you  ask  me  to 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 


171 

believe  it,’  he  continued,  witheringly,  ‘ I suppose  I 
must,  but ’ 

‘Mr.  Mannering!  ’ said  Elizabeth  earnestly,  ‘it 
would  really  be  kind  of  you  to  explain.’ 

Her  blush  had  died  away.  She  had  fallen  back 
in  her  chair,  and  was  meeting  his  attack  with  the 
steady,  candid  look  that  betrayed  her  character.  She 
was  now  entirely  self-possessed — neither  nervous  nor 
angry. 

The  Squire  changed  his  tone.  Folding  his  arms, 
he  leant  against  a pedestal  which  supported  a bust 
of  a Roman  emperor. 

‘ Very  well,  then — I will  explain.  I told  you  yes- 
terday of  a step  I proposed  to  take  by  way  of  test- 
ing how  far  the  invasion  of  personal  freedom  had 
gone  in  this  country.  I was  perfectly  justified  in 
taking  it.  I was  prepared  to  suffer  for  my  action.  I 
had  thought  It  all  out.  Then  you  came  in — and  by 
force  majeure  compelled  me  to  give  it  all  up ! ’ 

Elizabeth  could  not  help  laughing. 

‘ I never  heard  any  account  of  an  incident  which 
fitted  less  with  the  facts ! ’ she  said  with  vivacity. 

‘ It  exactly  fits  them ! ’ the  Squire  Insisted.  ‘ When 
I told  you  what  I meant  to  do,  instead  of  sympathy — 
Instead  of  simple  acquiescence,  for  how  the  deuce 
were  you  responsible ! — you  threatened  to  throw  up 
the  work  I cannot  now  possibly  accomplish  without 
you ’ 

‘Mr.  Levasseur?’  suggested  Elizabeth. 

‘ Levasseur  be  hanged ! ’ said  the  Squire,  taking  an 
angry  pace  up  and  down.  ‘ Don’t  please  Interrupt 
me.  I have  given  you  a perfectly  free  hand,  and 
you  have  organized  the  work — ^your  share  of  It — 
as  you  please.  Nobody  else  is  the  least  likely  to 
do  it  in  the  same  way.  When  you  go.  It  drops.  And 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 


172 

when  your  share  drops,  mine  drops.  That’s  what 
comes  of  employing  a woman  of  ability,  and  trust- 
ing to  her — as  I have  trusted  to  you ! ’ 

Was  there  ever  any  attack  so  grotesque,  so  un- 
fair? Elizabeth  was  for  one  moment  inclined  to  be 
angry — and  the  next,  she  was  conscious  of  yieldings 
and  compunctions  that  were  extremely  embarrass- 
ing. 

‘ You  rate  my  help  a great  deal  too  high,’  she  said 
after  a moment.  ‘ It  is  you  yourself  v/ho  have  taught 
me  how  to  work  in  your  way.  I don’t  think  you  will 
have  any  real  difficulty  with  another  secretary.  You 
are  ’ — she  ventured  a smile — ‘ you  are  a born 
teacher.’ 

Never  was  any  compliment  less  successful.  The 
Squire  looked  sombrely  down  upon  her. 

‘ So  you  still  intend  to  leave  us,’  he  said  slowly, 
‘ after  what  I have  done?  ’ 

‘ What  have  you  done  ? ’ said  Elizabeth  faintly. 

‘ Made  myself  a laughing-stock  to  the  whole  coun- 
try-side ! — and  thrown  all  my  principles  overboard — 
to  content  you — and  save  my  book ! ’ The  reply 
was  given  with  an  angry  energy  that  shook  her.  ‘ I 
have  humbled  myself  to  the  dust  to  meet  your  senti- 
mental ideas — and  there  you  sit — as  stony  and  in- 
accessible as  this  fellow  here  ! ’ — he  brought  his  hand 
down  with  vehemence  on  the  Roman  emperor’s 
shoulder.  ‘ Not  a word  of  gratitude — or  concession 
— or  sympathy!  I was  indeed  a fool  to  take  any 
trouble  to  please  you ! ’ 

Elizabeth  was  silent.  They  surveyed  each  other. 
‘ No  agitation!  ’ said  Elizabeth’s  inner  mind;  ‘ keep 
cool ! ’ 

At  last  she  withdrew  her  own  eyes  from  the  angry 
tension  of  his — dropped  them  to  the  table  where 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN  173 

her  right  hand  was  mechanically  drawing  nonsense 
figures  on  her  blotting-paper. 

‘ Did  you  really  yourself  take  down  that  barri" 
cade  ? ’ she  said  gently. 

‘ I did!  And  it  was  an  infernal  piece  of  work!  ’ 

‘ I’m  awfully  glad!  ’ Her  voice  was  very  soft. 

‘ I daresay  you  are.  It  suits  your  principles,  and 
your  ideas,  of  course — not  mine ! And  now,  having 
driven  me  to  it-— having  publicly  discredited  and  dis- 
graced me — you  can  still  sit  there  and  talk  of  throw- 
ing up  your  work.’ 

The  growing  passion  in  the  irascible  gentleman 
towering  above  her  warned  her  that  it  was  time  to 
bring  the  scene  to  an  end. 

‘ I am  glad,’  she  repeated  steadily,  ‘ very  glad — 
especially — for  Mr.  Desmond.’ 

‘ Oh,  Desmond ! ’ the  Squire  threw  out  impa- 
tiently, beginning  again  to  walk  up  and  down. 

‘ He  would  have  minded  so  dreadfully,’  she  said, 
still  in  a lower  key.  ‘ It  was  really  him  I was  think- 
ing of.  Of  course  I had  no  right  to  interfere  with 
your  affairs ’ 

The  Squire  turned,  the  tyrant  In  him  reviving 
fast. 

‘Well,  you  did  interfere — and  to  some  purpose! 
Now  then — yes  or  no-— is  your  notice  withdrawn?  ’ 

Elizabeth  hesitated. 

‘ I would  willingly  stay  with  you,’  she  said, 
‘if—’ 

‘ If  what?  ’ 

She  looked  up  with  a sudden  flash  of  laughter. 

‘ If  we  can  really  get  on!  ’ 

‘ Name  your  terms ! ’ He  returned,  frowning  and 
excited,  to  the  neighbourhood  of  the  Roman  em- 
peror. 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 


174 

‘ Oh  no — I have  no  terms,’  she  said  hurriedly. 
‘ Only — if  you  ask  me  to  help  you  with  the  land, 
I should  want  to  obey  the  Government — and — and 
do  the  best  for  the  war.’ 

‘ Condition  No.  i,’  said  the  Squire  grimly,  check- 
ing it  off.  ‘ Go  on ! ’ 

‘ And — I should — perhaps — beg  you  to  let  Pam- 
ela do  some  V.  A.  D.  work,  if  she  wants  to.’ 

‘Pamela  is  your  affair!’  said  the  Squire  impa- 
tiently. ‘ If  you  stay  here,  you  are  her  chaperon, 
and,  for  the  present,  head  of  the  household.’ 

‘ Only  just  for  the  present — till  Pamela  can  do 
it!  ’ put  in  Elizabeth  hastily.  ‘ But  she’s  nineteen — 
she  ought  to  take  a part.’ 

‘ Well,  don’t  bother  me  about  that.  You  are 
responsible.  I wash  my  hands  of  her.  Anything 
else?’^ 

It  did  not  do  to  think  of  Pamela’s  feelings,  should 
she  ever  become  aware  of  how  she  was  being  handed 
over.  But  the  mention  of  her,  on  a sudden  impulse, 
had  been  pure  sympathy  on  Elizabeth’s  part;  a wish 
to  strike  on  the  girl’s  behalf  while  the  iron  was  so 
very  hot.  She  looked  up  quietly. 

‘ No,  indeed  there  is  nothing  else — except  Indeed 
— that  you  won’t  expect  me  to  hide  what  I feel  about 
the  war — and  the  little  we  at  home  can  do  to 
help ’ 

Her  voice  failed  a little.  The  Squire  said 
nothing.  She  went  on,  with  a clearing  counte- 
nance. 

‘ So — if  you  really  wish  it — I will  stay,  Mr.  Man- 
nering — and  try  to  help  you  all  I can.  It  was  splen- 
did of  you — to  give  up  your  plans.  I’m  sure  you 
won’t  regret  it.’ 

‘ I’m  not  sure  at  all — but  it’s  done.  Now,  then, 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 


175 

let  us  understand.  You  take  over  nay  estate  corre- 
spondence. You’ll  want  a clerk — I’ll  find  one.  You 
can  appoint  a new  agent  if  you  like.  You  can  do 
what  you  like,  in  fact.  I was  never  meant  to  be  a 
landoAvner,  and  I hate  the  whole  business.  You  can 
harry  the  farmers  as  you  please — I shan’t  inter- 
fere.’ 

‘ Allow  me  to  point  out,’  said  Elizabeth  firmly, 
‘ that  at  college  I was  not  trained  in  land-agency — 
but  in  Greek ! ’ 

‘What  does  that  matter?  If  women  can  build 
Dreadnoughts,  as  they  say  they  can,  they  can  man- 
age estates.  Now,  then,  as  to  my  conditions.  Do 
what  you  like — but  my  book  and  the  catalogue  come 
first!  ’ He  looked  at  her  with  an  exacting  eye. 

‘ Certainly,’  said  Elizabeth. 

‘ But  I know  what  you’ll  do — you’ll  go  and  break 
down!  You  are  not  to  break  down.’ 

‘ Certainly!  ’ said  Elizabeth. 

‘ But  you  have  once  broken  down.’ 

Her  start  was  perceptible,  but  she  answered 
quietly. 

‘ I was  ill  a year  ago — partly  from  overwork.  But 
I am  normally  quite  strong.’ 

The  Squire  observed  her.  It  was  very  pleasant  to 
him  to  see  her  sitting  there,  in  her  trim  serge  dress, 
with  its  broad  white  coUar  and  cuffs — the  sheen  of 
her  hair  against  the  dark  wall — her  shapely  hands 
ready  for  work  upon  his  table.  He  felt  as  if  he  had 
with  enormous  difficulty  captured — recajjtured — 
something  of  exceptional  value;  like  one  of  those 
women  ‘ skilled  in  beautiful  arts  ’ whom  the  Greek 
slave-raiders  used  to  carry  off  from  a conquered  city, 
and  sell  for  large  sums  to  the  wives  of  wealthy 
Greek  chieftains.  Till  now  he  had  scarcely  thought 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 


176 

of  her  as  a woman,  but  rather  as  a fine-edged  but 
most  serviceable  tool  which  he  had  had  the  extraor- 
dinary good  luck  to  find.  Now,  with  his  mere  selfish 
feeling  of  relief  there  mingled  something  rather 
warmer  and  more  human.  If  only  she  would  stay, 
he  would  honestly  try  and  make  life  agreeable  to 
her. 

‘ Well  now,  that’s  settled,’  he  said,  drawing  a long 
breath — ‘ Oh — except  one  thing — you  will  of  course 
want  a larger  salary?’ 

‘ Not  at  all,’  said  Elizabeth  decidedly.  ‘ You  pay 
me  quite  enough.’ 

‘ You  are  not  offended  with  me  for  asking?  ’ His 
tone  had  become  astonishingly  deferential. 

‘ Not  the  least.  I am  a business  woman.  If  I 
thought  myself  entitled  to  more  I should  say  so.  But 
it  is  extremely  doubtful  whether  I can  really  be  of 
any  use  whatever  to  you.’ 

‘ All  right,’  said  the  Squire,  returning  to  his  own 
table.  ‘ Now,  then,  let  us  go  on  with  No.  190.’ 

‘ Is  it  necessary  now  to  put  in — well,  quite  so  much 
about  Penelope?  ’ asked  Elizabeth,  as  she  took  up  her 
pen. 

‘What  do  you  think?’ 

‘ It  seems  a little  long  and  dragged  in.’  Elizabeth 
looked  critically  at  the  paragraph. 

‘And  we  have  now  unravelled  the  web? — we  can 
do  without  her?  Yes — let  her  go ! ’ said  the  Squire, 
in  a tone  of  excessive  complaisance. 

When  the  morning’s  work  was  done,  and  luncheon 
over,  Elizabeth  carried  off  Pamela  to  her  room. 
When  Pamela  emerged,  she  went  in  search  of  Forest, 
interviewed  him  in  the  gun-room,  and  then  shutting 
herself  up  in  the  ‘ den  ’ she  wrote  to  Desmond. 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 


177 

‘ My  dear  Dezzy — There  are  such  queer  things 
going  on  in  this  queer  house!  Yesterday  Broomie 
gave  warning,  and  father  barricaded  the  park  gates^ 
and  was  perfectly  mad,  and  determined  not  to  listen 
to  anybody.  In  the  middle  of  the  night  he  and 
Forest  took  the  barricade  down,  and  to-day,  Broomie 
is  to  be  not  only  secretary,  but  land-agent,  and 
anything  else  she  pleases — queen,  in  fact,  of  all  she 
surveys — including  me.  But  I am  bound  to  say  she 
had  been  very  decent  to  me  over  it  all.  She  wants 
me  to  do  some  of  the  housekeeping — and  she  has 
actually  made  father  consent  to  my  helping  at  the 
hospital  every  afternoon.  Of  course  I am  awfully 
glad  about  that.  I shall  bicycle  over. 

‘ But  all  the  same  it  is  very  odd,  and  perhaps  you 
and  I had  better  consider  what  it  may  mean.  I know 
from  Broomie  herself  that  she  gave  notice  yester- 
day^ — -and  now  she  is  going  to  stay.  And  I know 
from  Forest  that  father  called  him  up  when  it  was 
quite  dark,  between  three  and  four  in  the  morning — 
Mrs.  Forest  thought  the  Germans  had  come  when  she 
heard  the  knocking — -and  asked  him  to  come  with 
him  and  undo  the  gates.  Forest  told  me  that  he 
would  have  had  nothing  whatever  to  do  with  closing 
them,  nor  with  anything  ’agin  the  Government! 
He’s  a staunch  old  soul,  is  Forest.  So  when  father 
told  him  what  he  wanted,  he  didn’t  know  what  to 
make  of  it.  However,  they  both  groped  their  way 
through  the  fog,  which  was  thick  on  the  other  side 
of  the  park,  and  set  to  at  the  gates.  Forest  says 
it  was  an  awful  business  to  get  everything  cleared 
away.  Father  and  Gregson  had  made  an  uncom- 
monly good  job  of  it.  If  Gregson  had  put  in  work 
like  that  on  his  own  hedges  and  gates.  Forest  says 
he  mightn’t  have  been  kic&d  out  I It  took  them  ages 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 


178 

getting  the  barbed  wire  cleared  away,  because  they 
hadn’t  any  proper  nippers.  Father  took  off  hrs 
coat,  and  worked  like  a navvy,  and  Forest  hoisted 
him  up  to  get  at  the  wire  along  the  wall.  Forest 
says  he  was  determined  to  leave  nothing!  “ And  I 
believe.  Miss,  the  Squire  was  very  glad  of  the  fog — 
because  there  couldn’t  be  any  one  prying  around.” 

‘ For  it  seems  to  be  really  true  that  the  village  has 
Jbeen  in  a state  of  ferment,  and  that  they  had  deter- 
mined to  free  the  gates  and  let  in  the  Council  plough. 
Perley  was  seen  talking  to  a lot  of  men  on  the  green 
last  night.  I met  him  myself  this  morning  after 
breakfast  near  the  gates,  and  he  confessed  he  had 
been  there  already — early.  I expect  he  came  to  re- 
connoitre and  take  back  the  news.  Rather  calm, 
for  one  of  father’s  own  men  I But  that’s  the  new 
spirit,  Dezzy.  We’re  not  going  to  be  allowed  to 
have  it  all  our  own  way  any  more.  Well,  thank 
goodness,  I don’t  mind.  At  least,  there  is  some- 
thing in  me  that  minds.  I suppose  it’s  one’s  forbears. 
But  the  greater  part  of  me  wants  a lot  of  change — 
and  there  are  often  and  often  times  w'hen  I wish 
I’d  been  born  in  the  working-class  and  was  just 
struggling  upwards  with  them,  and  sharing  all  their 
hopes  and  dreams  for  “ after  the  war.”  Well,  why 
shouldn’t  I ? I’m  going  to  set  Broomie  on  to  some 
of  the  cottages  in  the  village — not  that  she’ll  want 
setting  on — but  after  all,  it’s  I who  know  the  people. 

‘ But  that’s  by  the  way.  The  point  is  why  did 
father  give  in?  Evidently  because  Broomie  gave 
notice,  and  he  couldn’t  bear  the  idea  of  parting  with 
her.  Of  course  Alice — and  Margaret  too,  to  some 
extent — are  convinced  it  all  means  that  father  wants 
to  marry  her.  Only  Alice  thinks  that  Miss  Bremer- 
ton has  been  intriguing  for  it  since  the  first  week 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 


179 

she  set  foot  in  the  house;  while  Margaret  is  certain 
that  she  wouldn’t  marry  father  if  he  asked  her.  She 
thinks  that  Miss  B.  is  just  the  new  woman,  whc 
wants  to  do  things,  and  isn’t  always  thinking  about 
getting  married.  Well,  Dezzy,  old  boy — I don’t 
know  what  to  think.  I’ll  keep  my  eyes  open,  and 
report  to  you.  I don’t — altogether — like  her.  No, 
I don’t — that’s  flat.  I wish,  on  the  whole,  she’d 
taken  her  departure ! And  yet  I feel  rather  a toad 
for  saying  so.  She  is  splendid  in  some  things — yes, 
she  is ! And  the  Rectory  people  take  the  most  rose- 
coloured  view  of  her — it’s  too  late  to  tell  you  why, 
for  the  postman  is  just  coming. 

‘ Good-bye,  Dezzy — dear  Dezzy ! I know  how 
glad  you’ll  be  about  the  gates.  Write  to  me  as  often 
as  you  can.  By  the  way.  Miss  Bremerton  has  got  a 
brother  in  the  war — with  General  Maude.  That 
ought  to  make  me  like  her.  But  why  did  she  leave 
us  to  find  it  out  through  the  Rectory?  She  never 
says  anything  about  herself  that  she  can  help.  Do 
you  think  you’ll  really  get  to  France  in  January? 
Ever  your  loving 


‘ Pam.^ 


CHAPTER 


IT  was  a bright  January  day.  Lunch  was  just  over 
at  Mannering,  and  the  iuncheon-party  had  dis- 
persed— attracted  to  the  garden  and  the  park 
by  the  lure  of  the  sunshine  after  dark  days  of  storm 
and  wind.  Mrs.  Gaddesden  alone  was  left  sitting 
by  the  hre  in  the  hall.  There  was  a cold  wind,  and 
she  did  not  feel  equal  to  facing  it.  She  was  one  of 
those  women,  rare  in  these  days,  who,  though  still 
young,  prefer  to  be  prematurely  old;  in  vrhom  their 
great-grandmothers,  and  the  ‘ elegant  ’ lackadaisical 
v/avs  of  a generation  that  knew  nothing  of  exercise, 
thick  boots  and  short  skirts,  seem  to  become  once 
more  incarnate.  Though  Mannering  was  not  ill- 
warmed,  Alice  moved  about  it  in  winter  wrapped  in 
a picturesque  coat  of  black  velvet  trimmed  with  chin- 
chilla, her  head  wreathed  in  white  lace.  From  this 
rather  pompous  setting  her  fair  hair,  small  person, 
and  pinched  pale  face  looked  out  perhaps  with 
greater  dignity  than  they  could  have  achieved  un- 
adorned. Her  chilliness,  her  small  self-indulgences, 
including  an  inordinate  love  of  cakes  and  all  sweet 
things,  were  the  standing  joke  of  the  twins  when 
they  discussed  the  family  freely  behind  the  closed 
doors  of  the  ‘ Den.’  But  no  one  disliked  A.lice 
Gaddesden,  though  it  was  hard  to  be  actively  fond 
of  her.  She  and  her  husband  were  quite  good 
friends;  but  they  were  no  longer  of  any  real  impor- 
tance to  each  other.  He  was  a good  deal  older 

iSo 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN  i8i 

than  she ; and  was  often  away  from  London  on  ‘ war 
work  ’ in  the  Midlands.  On  these  occasions  Alice 
generally  invited  herself  to  Mannering.  She  thus 
got  rid  of  housekeeping,  which  in  these  days  of 
rations  worried  her  to  death.  Moreover,  food  at 
Mannering  was  much  more  plentiful  than  food  in 
town — especially  since  th?  advent  of  Elizabeth  Brem- 
erton. 

It  was  of  Elizabeth  that  Mrs.  Gaddesden  was 
thinking  as  she  sat  alone  in  the  hall.  From  her 
seat  she  could  perceive  a shrubbery  walk  in  the  gar- 
den outside,  along  which  two  figures  were  pacing — 
Miss  Bremerton  and  the  new  agent.  Beyond,  at 
some  distance,  she  was  aware  of  another  group  dis- 
appearing among  the  trees  of  the  park — Pamela 
with  Captain  Chicksands  and  Beryl. 

This  was  the  first  time  that  any  member  of  the 
Chicksands  family  had  been  a guest  at  Mannering 
since  the  quarrel  in  the  autumn.  The  Squire  had 
not  yet  brought  himself  to  shake  hands  with  Sir 
Henry.  But  Beryl  on  the  one  side,  and  Pamela  on 
the  other — aided  and  abetted  always  by  Elizabeth 
Bremerton — had  been  gradually  breaking  down  the 
embargo;  and  when,  hearing  from  Beryl  that  her 
brother  Arthur  was  with  them  for  a few  days,  Pam- 
ela had  openly  proposed  in  her  father’s  presence  to 
ask  them  both  to  luncheon,  the  Squire  had  pretended 
not  to  hear,  but  had  at  any  rate  raised  no  objection. 
And  when  the  brother  and  sister  arrived,  he  had 
received  them  as  though  nothing  had  happened.  His 
manners  were  always  brusque  and  ungracious,  except 
in  the  case  of  persons  who  specially  mattered  to  his 
own  pursuits,  such  as  archaeologists  and  Greek  pro- 
fessors. But  the  Chetworth  family  were  almost  as 
well  acquainted  with  his  ways  as  his  own,  and  his 


i82 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 


visitors  took  them  philosophically.  Arthur  Chick- 
sands  had  kept  the  table  alive  at  luncheon  with 
soldier  stories,  and  the  Squire’s  sulky  or  sarcastic 
silence  had  passed  unnoticed. 

Mrs.  Gaddesden’s  mind  was  very  full  of  the  Cap- 
tain’s good  looks  and  distinction.  He  was  now  in 
London,  at  the  War  Office,  it  seemed,  for  a short 
time,  on  a special  mission;  hence  his  occasional  week- 
ends with  his  family.  When  the  mission  was  over — 
so  Beryl  told  Pamela — he  was  probably  going  out  to 
an  important  appointment  in  the  Intelligence  Depart- 
ment at  G.H.Q.  ‘ Arthur’s  a great  swell,’  said 
Beryl,  ‘ though  as  to  what  he’s  done,  or  what  people 
think  of  him,  you  have  to  dig  It  out  of  him — If  you 
can ! ’ 

Mrs.  Gaddesden  did  not  very  much  like  him.  His 
brusque  sincerity  made  people  of  her  sort  uncom- 
fortable. But  she  would  have  liked  very  much  to 
know  whether  there  was  anything  up  between 
him  and  Pamela.  Really,  Miss  Bremerton’s  dis- 
cretion about  such  things  was  too  tiresome — ridicu- 
lous— almost  rude ! It  was  no  good  trying,  even, 
to  discuss  them  with  her. 

As  to  the  disinheriting  of  Aubrey,  no  more  had 
been  heard  of  It.  Miss  Bremerton  had  told  Aubrey 
v/hen  he  was  at  home  for  twenty-four  hours  at 
Christmas  that,  as  far  as  she  knew,  the  codicil  was 
still  unsigned.  But  Aubrey  didn’t  seem  to  care  the 
least  whether  it  was  or  no.  If  Beryl  wished  him  to 
raise  the  question  again  with  his  father,  of  course 
he  would;  otherwise  he  greatly  preferred  to  leave  it 
alone.  And  as  Beryl  had  no  will  or  wishes  but  his, 
and  was.  In  Alice’s  opinion,  only  too  absurdly  and 
dependency  in  love,  the  sleeping  dogs  were  very 
much  asleep;  and  the  secret  of  Mannering’s  future 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN  '183 

disposal  lay  hid  impenetrably  in  the  Squire’s  own 
breast. 

At  the  same  time,  Mrs.  Gaddesden  was  firmly  per- 
suaded that  whatever  Elizabeth  Bremerton  wished 
or  advised  would  ultimately  be  done. 

What  an  extraordinary  position  that  young  woman 
now  held  among  them!  Nearly  three  months  had 
now  elapsed  since  Mrs.  Gaddesden’s  autumn  visit-- 
since  Desmond  had  gone  into  training  at  his  artillery 
camp — since  a third  of  the  park  had  been  ploughed 
up,  and  since  Elizabeth  Bremerton  had  thrown  up 
her  post  only  to  come  back  next  day  as  dicta- 
tor. 

Yes~~~dictator!  Mrs.  Gaddesden  was  never  tired 
of  thinking  about  it,  and  was  excitedly  conscious 
that  all  the  neighbourhood,  and  all  their  friends  and 
kinsfolk  were  thinking  and  speculating  with  her.  At 
the  beginning  of  November,  before  she  and  Mar- 
garet Strang  went  back  to  town,  the  Squire  had 
announced  to  all  of  them  that  Miss  Bremerton  had 
become  his  ‘ business  secretary,’  as  well  as  his 
classical  assistant.  And  now,  after  three  months, 
the  meaning  of  this  notice  was  becoming  very  clear. 
The  old  agent,  Mr.  Hull,  had  been  dismissed,  and 
moderately— very  moderately — pensioned.  It  was 
said  that  Miss  Bremerton,  on  looking  into  his  ac- 
counts, saw  no  reason  at  all  for  any  special  indul- 
gence. For,  in  addition  to  everything  else,  she 
turned  out  to  be  a trained  accountant  1— -and  money 
matters  connected  with  the  estate  were  being  probed 
to  the  bottom  that  had  never  been  probed  before. 
Mrs.  Gaddesden’s  own  allowance— for  the  Squire 
had  always  obstinately  declined  to  settle  any  capital 
on  his  married  daughters — had  been,  for  the  first 
time,  paid  at  the  proper  date — ^by  Elizabeth  Brem- 


I 


1 84  ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 

erton!  At  least,  If  the  Squire  had  signed  it.  she 
had  written  the  cheque.  And  she  might  perfectly 
well  have  signed  it.  For,  as  Pamela  had  long  since 
reported  to  her  sisters,  Elizabeth  paid  all  the  house 
and  estate  accounts  over  her  own  signature,  and 
seemed  to  have  much  more  accurate  knowledge  than 
the  Squire  himself  of  the  state  of  his  bank  balance, 
and  his  money  affairs  generally. 

Not  that  she  ever  paraded  these  things  in  the 
least.  But  neither  did  she  make  any  unnecessary 
mystery  about  it  with  the  Squire’s  family.  A.nd  in- 
deed they  were  quite  evident  to  any  one  living  in 
the  house.  At  times  she  would  make  little,  laughing, 
apologetic  remarks  to  one  of_  the  daughters — ‘ I 
hope  you  don’t  mind! — the  Squire  wants  me  to  get 
things  straight.’  But  in  general,  her  authority  by 
now  had  become  a matter  of  course. 

Her  position  in  the  Mannering  household,  how- 
ever, was  as  nothing  to  her  position  in  the  estate 
and  the  neighbourhood.  That  was  the  amazing 
thing  which  had  by  now  begun  to  set  all  tongues 
wagging.  Sir  Henry  Chicksands,  meeting  Mrs. 
Gaddesden  at  the  station,  had  poured  himself  out 
to  her.  ‘ That  extraordinary  young  woman  your 
father  has  got  hold  of,  is  simply  transforming  the 
whole  place.  The  farmers  on  the  whole  like  her 
very  much.  But  if  they  don’t  like  her,  they’re 
afraid  of  her!  For  Heaven’s  sake  don’t  let  her 
kill  herself  with  over-work.  She’ll  soon  be  leading 
the  county.’ 

Yes.  Work  indeed!  How  on  earth  did  she  get 
through  it?  In  the  mornings  there  she  was  in  the 
library,  absorbed  in  the  catalogue,  writing  to  the 
Squire’s  dictation,  transcribing  or  translating  Greek 
— his  docile  and  obedient  slave.  Then  in  the  after- 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN  185 

noon — bicycling  all  over  the  estate,  and  from  dark 
onwards,  till  late  at  night,  busy  with  correspondence 
and  office  work,  except  just  for  dinner  and  an  hour 
afterwards. 

The  door  of  the  outer  hall  opened  and  shut, 
Elizabeth  and  a young  man — the  new  agent — entered 
the  inner  hall,  where  Mrs.  Gaddesden  was  sitting, 
Elizabeth  acknowledging  her  presence  with  a pleas- 
ant nod  and  smile.  But  they  passed  quickly  through 
to  the  room  at  the  further  end  of  the  hall,  which 
was  now  an  estate  office  where  Elizabeth  spent  the 
latter  part  of  her  day.  It  was  connected  both  with 
the  main  living-rooms  of  the  house,  and  with  a side 
entrance  from  the  park,  by  which  visitors  on  estate 
matters  were  admitted. 

A man  was  sitting  waiting  for  Miss  Bremerton. 
He  was  the  new  tenant  of  the  derelict  farm,  on  the 
Holme  Wood  side  of  the  estate,  and  he  had  come 
to  report  on  the  progress  which  had  been  made  Ire 
clearing  and  ploughing  the  land,  and  repairing  the 
farm-buildings.  He  was  a youngish  man,  a sergeant 
in  a Warwickshire  regiment,  who  had  been  twice 
wounded  in  the  war,  and  was  now  discharged.  As 
the  son  of  an  intelligent  farmer,  he  had  had  a good 
agricultural  training,  and  it  was  evident  that  his 
enthusiasms  and  those  of  the  Squire’s  new  ‘ business- 
secretary ’ were  running  in  harness. 

The  new  agent.  Captain  Dell,  also  a discharged 
Territorial,  who  had  lost  an  arm  in  the  war,  watched 
the  scene  between  the  incoming  tenant  and  Eliza- 
beth, with  a shrewd  pair  of  eyes,  through  which 
there  passed  occasional  gleams  of  amusement  or 
surprise.  He  was  every  day  making  further  ac- 
quaintance with  the  lady  who  was  apparently  to  be 


i86 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 


his  chief,  but  he  was  well  aware  that  he  was  only 
at  the  beginning  of  his  lesson.  Astonishing,  to  see 
a woman  taking  this  kind  of  lead  I — asking  these 
technical  questions — as  to  land,  crops,  repairs,  food 
production,  and  the  rest — looking  every  now  and 
then  at  the  note-book  beside  her,  full  of  her  own 
notes  made  on  the  spot,  or  again,  setting  down  with 
a quick  hand  something  that  was  said  to  her.  And 
all  through  he  was  struck  with  her  tone  of  quiet 
authority — without  a touch  of  boasting  or  ‘ side,’ 
but  also  without  a touch  of  any  mere  feminine  defer- 
ence to  the  male.  She  was  there  in  the  Squire’s 
place,  and  she  never  let  it  be  forgotten.  Heavens, 
women  had  come  on  during  this  war ! Through  the 
young  man’s  mind  there  ran  a vague  and  whirling 
sense  of  change. 

‘Well,  Mr.  Denman,  that  all  sounds  splendid!’ 
said  Elizabeth,  at  last,  as  she  rose  from  her  table. 
‘The  country  won’t  starve,  if  you  can  help  it!  I 
shall  tell  the  County  Committee  all  about  you  on 
Tuesday.  You  don’t  want  another  tractor?  ’ 

‘ Oh,  no,  thank  you  ! The  two  at  work  are  enough. 
I hope  you’ll  be  over  soon.  I should  like  to  show 
you  what  we’ve  been  after.’  The  man’s  tone  was 
one  of  eager  good  will. 

‘ Oh  yes,  I shall  be  over  before  long,’  said  Eliza- 
beth cheerfully.  ‘ It’s  so  tremendously  interesting 
what  you’re  doing.  And  if  you  want  anything  I 
can  help  you  in,  you  can  always  telephone.’ 

And  she  pointed  smiling  to  the  instrument  on 
the  table — the  first  that  had  ever  been  allowed 
within  the  walls  of  Mannering.  And  that  the  Squire 
might  not  be  teased  w’ith  it,  Elizabeth  had  long  since 
fitted  an  extra  inner  door,  covered  with  green  baize, 
to  the  door  of  the  office. 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN  187 

The  new  tenant  departed,  and  Elizabeth  turned 
to  the  agent. 

‘ I really  think  weVe  caught  a good  man  there,’ 
she  said,  with  a smile.  ‘ Now  will  you  tell  me, 
please,  about  those  timber  proposals?  I hope  to 
get  a few  words  with  the  Squire  to-night.’ 

And  leaning  back  In  her  chair,  she  listened  in- 
tently while  Captain  Dell,  bringing  a roll  of  papers 
out  of  his  pocket,  read  her  the  draft  proposals  of 
a well-known  firm  of  timber  merchants,  for  the 
purchase  of  some  of  the  Squire’s  outlying  woods  of 
oak  and  beech.  Lights  had  been  brought  In,  and 
Elizabeth  sat  shading  her  eyes  from  the  lamp  be- 
fore her, — a strong  and  yet  agreeable  figure.  Was 
it  the  consciousness  of  successful  work — of  opening 
horizons,  and  satisfied  ambitions,  that  had  made  a 
physical  presence,  always  attractive,  so  much  more 
attractive  than  before — that  had  given  it  a magne- 
tism and  fire  it  had  never  yet  possessed?  Pamela, 
who  was  developing  fast,  and  was  acutely  conscious 
of  Elizabeth,  asked  herself  the  question,  or  some- 
thing like  it,  about  once  a week.  And  during  a short 
Christmas  visit  that  Elizabeth  had  paid  her  own 
people,  her  gentle  mother,  much  puzzled  and  a little 
dazzled  by  her  daughter,  had  necessarily  pondered 
the  why  and  wherefore  of  a change  she  felt,  but 
could  not  analyse.  One  thing  the  mother’s  insight 
had  been  clear  about.  Elizabeth  was  not  In  love. 
On  the  contrary,  the  one  love-affair  of  her  life 
seemed  to  be  at  last  forgotten  and  put  aside.  Eliza- 
beth was  now  in  love  with  efficiency;  with  a great 
task  given  Into  her  hand.  As  to  the  Squire,  the 
owner  of  Mannering,  who  had  provided  her  with 
the  task,  Mrs.  Bremerton  could  not  imagine  him  or 
envisage  him  at  all.  Elizabeth’s  accounts  of  him 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 


:i88 

were  so  reticent  and  so  contradictory.  . . . ‘ Well, 
that’s  very  interesting  ’ — said  Elizabeth  thought- 
fully, when  Captain  Dell  laid  down  his  papers — ‘ I 
wonder  what  Mr.  Mannering  will  say  to  it?  As 
you  know,  I got  his  express  permission  for  you  to 
make  these  enquiries.  But  he  hates  cutting  down  a 
single  tree,  and  this  will  mean  a wide  clearance ! ’ 

‘ So  it  will — but  the  country  wants  every  stick  of 
it.  And  as  to  not  cutting,  one  sees  that  from  the 
woods — the  tragedy  of  the  woods ! ’ — said  the 
young  man  with  emphasis.  ‘ There  has  been  no 
decent  forestry  on  this  estate  for  half  a century. 
I hope  you  will  be  able  to  persuade  him.  Miss 
Bremerton.  I expect,  indeed,  it’s  Hobson’s 
choice.’ 

‘ You  mean  the  timber  will  be  commandeered?  ’ 

‘ Probably.  The  Government  have  just  come 
down  on  some  of  Lord  Radley’s  woods  just  beyond 
our  borders — with  scarcely  a week’s  warning.  No 
“ With  your  leave  ” or  “ By  your  leave  ” ! The 
price  fixed,  Canadians  sent  down  to  cut,  and  a light 
railway  built  from  the  woods  to  the  station  to  carry 
the  timber,  before  you  could  say  “Jack  Robin- 
son.” ’ 

‘ You  think  the  price  these  people  offer  is  a fair 
one?’  She  pointed  to  the  draft  contract. 

‘ Excellent ! The  Squire  won’t  get  nearly  as  much 
from  the  Government.’ 

‘ What  one  might  do  with  some  of  it  for  the 
estate ! ’ said  Elizabeth,  looking  up,  her  blue  eyes 
dancing  in  the  lamplight. 

‘ Rebuild  half  the  cottages?  ’ said  the  other,  smil- 
ing, as  he  rose.  ‘ A village  club-house,  a communal 
kitchen,  a small  holdings  scheme — all  the  things 
we’ve  talked  about?  Oh  yes,  you  could  do  all  that 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN  189 

and  more.  The  Squire  doesn’t  know  what  he  pos- 
sesses.’ 

‘ Well,  I’ll  take  the  papers  to  him,’  said  Eliza- 
beth, holding  out  her  hands  for  them.  ‘ I may  per- 
haps catch  him  to-night.’ 

A little  more  business  talk,  and  the  agent  de- 
parted. Then  Elizabeth  dreamily — still  cogitating 
a hundred  things — touched  an  electric  bell.  A girl 
typist,  who  acted  as  her  clerk,  came  in  from  an 
adjoining  room.  Elizabeth  rapidly  dictated  a num- 
ber of  letters,  stayed  for  a little  friendly  gossip 
with  the  girl  about  her  father  in  the  Army  Service 
Corps,  who  had  been  in  hospital  at  Rouen,  and  had 
just  finished,  when  the  gong  rang  for  afternoon 
tea. 

When  Elizabeth  entered,  the  hall  was  crowded. 
It  was  the  principal  sitting-room  of  the  house,  now 
that  for  reasons  of  economy  fires  were  seldom  lit 
in  the  drawing-rooms.  Before  Elizabeth’s  advent 
it  had  been  a dingy,  uncomfortable  place,  but  she 
and  Pamela  had  entirely  transformed  it.  As  in  the 
estate  so  in  the  house,  the  Squire  did  not  know  what 
he  possessed.  In  all  old  houses  with  a continuous 
life,  there  are  accumulations  of  furniture  and  stores, 
discarded  by  the  generation  of  one  day,  and  brought 
back  by  the  fashion  of  the  next.  A little  routing  in 
attics  and  forgotten  cupboards  and  chests  had  pro- 
duced astonishing  results.  Chippendale  chairs  and 
settees  had  been  brought  down  from  the  servants’ 
bedrooms;  two  fine  Dutch  cabinets  had  been  dis- 
covered amid  a mass  of  lumber  in  an  outhouse;  a 
tall  Japanese  screen,  dating  from  the  end  of  the 
eighteenth  century,  and  many  pairs  of  linen  cur- 
tains embroidered  about  the  same  time  in  branching 


190  ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 

oriental  patterns  by  the  hands  of  Mannering  ladies, 
had  been  unearthed,  and  Pamela — for  Elizabeth 
having  started  the  search  had  interfered  very  little 
with  its  results — had  spent  some  of  her  now  scanty 
leisure  in  making  the  best  of  the  finds.  The  hall  was 
now  a charming  place,  scented,  moreover,  on  this 
January  evening  by  the  freesias  and  narcissus  that 
Elizabeth  had  managed  to  rear  in  the  house  itself, 
and  Pamela,  who  had  always  been  ashamed  of  her 
own  ill-kept  and  out-at-elbows  home,  as  compared 
with  the  perfections  of  Chetworth,  had  been  show- 
ing Arthur  and  Beryl  Chicksands  what  had  been 
done  to  renovate  the  old  house  since  they  were  last 
in  it — ‘ and  all  without  spending  a penny ! ’ — with  a 
girlish  pleasure  which  in  the  Captain’s  opinion  be- 
came her  greatly.  Pamela  needed  indeed  a good 
deal  of  animation  to  be  as  handsome  as  she  deserved 
to  be ! A very  critical  observer  took  note  that  her 
stock  of  it  was  rapidly  rising.  It  was  the  same  with 
the  letters,  too,  which  for  a month  or  so  past,  she  had 
condescended  to  write  him,  after  treating  him  most 
uncivilly  in  the  autumn,  and  never  answering  a long 
screed — ‘ and  a jolly  good  one ! ’ — which  he  had 
written  her  from  Paris  in  November. 

As  Elizabeth  came  in,  Pamela  was  reading  aloud 
a telegram  just  received,  and  Miss  Bremerton  was 
greeted  with  the  news — ‘ Desmond’s  coming  to- 
night, instead  of  to-morrow!  They’ve  given  him 
forty-eight  hours’  leave,  and  he  goes  to  France  on 
Thursday.’ 

‘ That’s  very  short!  ’ said  Elizabeth,  as  she  took 
her  place  beside  Pamela,  who  was  making  tea.  ‘ Does 
your  father  know?  ’ 

Forest,  it  appeared,  had  gone  to  tell  him.  Mean- 
while Captain  Chicksands  was  watching  with  a keen 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 


191 

eye  the  relation  between  Miss  Bremerton  and  Pam- 
ela. He  saw  that  the  Squire’s  secretary  was  scru- 
pulously careful  to  give  Pamela  her  place  as 
daughter  of  the  house ; but  Pamela’s  manner  hardly 
showed  any  real  intimacy  between  them.  And  it 
was  easy  to  see  where  the  real  authority  lay.  As 
for  himself  he  had  lately  begun  to  ask  himself  seri- 
ously how  much  he  was  interested  in  Pamela.  For 
in  truth,  though  he  was  no  coxcomb,  he  could  not 
help  seeing — all  the  more  because  of  Pamela’s  vari- 
able moods  towards  him — that  she  was  at  least 
incipiently  interested  in  him.  If  so,  was  it  fair  to 
her  that  they  should  correspond? — and  that  he 
should  come  to  Mannering  whenever  he  was  asked 
and  military  duty  allowed,  now  that  the  Squire’s 
embargo  was  at  least  partially  removed? 

He  confessed  to  himself  that  he  was  glad  to  come, 
that  Pamela  attracted  him.  At  the  same  time  there 
was  in  him  a stern  sense  that  the  time  was  no  time 
for  love-making.  The  German  hosts  were  gather- 
ing; the  vast  breakdown  in  Russia  was  freeing  more 
and  more  of  them  for  the  Western  assault.  He 
himself  was  for  the  moment  doing  some  important 
intelligence  work,  in  close  contact  with  the  High 
Command.  No  one  outside  a very  small  circle  knew 
better  than  he  what  lay  in  front  of  England — the 
fierce  death-struggle  over  a thousand  miles  of  front. 
And  were  men  and  women  to  be  kissing  and  marry- 
ing while  these  storm-clouds  of  war — this  rain  of 
blood — were  gathering  overhead? 

Involuntarily  he  moved'  further  from  Pamela. 
His  fine  face  with  the  rather  high  cheek-bones, 
strong  mouth,  and  lined  brow,  seemed  to  put  soft- 
ness away.  He  approached  Elizabeth. 

‘ What  is  the  Squire  doing  about  his  wood.  Miss 


192  ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 

Bremerton?  The  Government’s  desperately  in  want 
of  ash  I ’ 

He  spoke  almost  as  one  official  might  speak  to 
another — comrade  to  comrade.  What  he  had  heard 
about  her  doings  from  his  father  had  filled  his 
soldier’s  mind  with  an  eager  admiration  for  her. 
That  was  how  women  should  bear  themselves  in 
this  war — as  the  practical  helpers  of  men. 

He  fell  into  the  chair  beside  her,  and  Elizabeth  was 
soon  deep  in  conversation  with  him,  a conversation 
that  any  one  might  overhear  who  would.  It  turned 
partly  on  the  armies  abroad — partly  on  the  effort  at 
home.  There  was  warmth — even  passion — in  it, 
studiously  restrained.  But  it  was  the  passion  of 
two  patriots,  conscious  through  every  pulse  of  their 
country’s  strait. 

The  others  listened.  Pamela  became  silent  and 
pale.  All  the  old  jealousy  and  misery  of  the  autumn 
were  alive  in  her  once  more.  She  had  looked  for- 
ward for  weeks  to  this  meeting  with  Arthur  Chick- 
sands.  And  for  the  first  part  of  his  visit  she  had 
been  happy — before  Elizabeth  came  on  the  scene. 
Why  should  Elizabeth  have  all  the  homage  and  the 
attention?  She,  too,  was  doing  her  best!  She 
was  drudging  every  day  as  a V.A.D.,  washing 
crockery  and  scrubbing  floors;  and  this  was  the  first 
afternoon  off  she  had  had  for  weeks.  Her  limbs 
were  dog-tired.  But  Arthur  Chicksands  never  talked 
to  her — Pamela — in  this  tone  of  freedom  and 
equality — with  the  whole  and  not  the  half  of  his 
mind.  ‘ I could  hold  my  own,’  she  thought  bitterly, 
‘ but  he  never  gives  me  the  chance  I I suppose  he 
despises  girls.’ 

As  the  hall  clock  struck  half-past  five,  however, 
Elizabeth  rose  from  her  seat,  gathering  up  the 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 


193 

papers  she  had  brought  in  from  the  office,  and  dis- 
appeared. 

Arthur  Chicksands  looked  at  his  watch.  Beryl 
exclaimed : 

‘ Oh,  no,  Arthur,  not  yet ! Let’s  wait  for  Des- 
mond! ’ 

Pamela  said  perfunctorily — ‘ No,  please  don’t 
go ! He’ll  be  here  directly. 

But  as  they  gathered  round  the  fire,  expecting 
the  young  gunner,  she  hardly  opened  her  lips  again. 
Arthur  Chicksands  was  quite  conscious  that  he  had 
wounded  her.  She  appeared  to  him,  as  she  sat  there 
in  the  firelight,  in  all  the  first  fairness  and  freshness 
of  her  youth,  as  an  embodied  temptation.  Again 
he  said  to  himself  that  other  men  might  love  and 
marry  on  the  threshold  of  battle;  he  could  not  bring 
himself  to  think  it  justifiable — whether  for  the 
woman  or  the  man.  In  a few  weeks’  time  he  would 
be  back  in  France  and  in  the  very  thick,  perhaps, 
of  the  final  struggle — of  its  preparatory  stages,  at 
any  rate.  Could  one  make  love  to  a beautiful  crea- 
ture like  that  at  such  a moment,  and  then  leave  her, 
with  a whole  mind? — the  mind  and  the  nerve  that 
were  the  country’s  due? 

All  the  same  he  had  never  been  so  aware  of  her 
before.  And  simultaneously  his  mind  was  invaded 
by  the  mute,  haunting  certainty  that  her  life  was 
reaching  out  towards  his,  and  that  he  was  repelling 
and  hurting  her. 

Suddenly — into  the  midst  of  them,  while  Mrs. 
Gaddesden  was  talking  endlessly  in  her  small  plain- 
tive voice  about  rations  and  queues — there  dropped 
the  sound  of  a car  passing  the  windows,  and  a boy’s 
clear  voice. 

‘ Desmond  1 ’ cried  Pamela,  with  almost  a sob  of 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 


194 

relief,  and  like  one  escaping  from  a nightmare  she 
sprang  up  and  ran  to  greet  her  brother. 

Meanwhile  Elizabeth  had  found  the  Squire  wait- 
ing for  her,  and,  as  she  saw  at  once,  in  a state  of 
tension. 

‘ What  was  that  you  were  saying  to  me  about 
timber  last  week?  ’ he  demanded  imperiously  as  she 
entered,  without  giving  her  time  to  speak.  ‘ I hear 
this  intolerable  Government  are  behaving  like  mad- 
men, cutting  down  everything  they  can  lay  hands 
on.  They  shan’t  have  my  trees — I would  burn  them 
first!  ’ 

Elizabeth  paused  in  some  dismay. 

‘You  remember ’ she  began. 

‘Remember  what?’  It  was  long  since  she 
had  heard  so  snappish  a tone. 

‘ That  you  authorized  me ’ 

‘ Oh,  I daresay,  I gave  myself  away — I’m  always 
doing  so.  I don’t  mean  half  I say.  You’re  too  full 
of  business — you  take  me  up  too  quick.  What  are 
those  papers  you’ve  got  there?’ 

Elizabeth’s  red  cheeks  showed  her  taken  aback. 
It  was  the  first  time  for  weeks  that  her  employer 
had  turned  upon  her  so.  She  had  grown  so  accus- 
tomed to  managing  him,  to  taming  the  Irritable 
temper  that  no  one  else  but  she  could  cope  with,  and, 
unconsciously,  so  proud  of  her  success,  that  she 
was  not  prepared  for  this  attack.  She  met  it 
meekly. 

‘ I have  a proposal  here  to  submit  to  you,  from 

& Co.  (she  named  a firm  of  timber-merchants 

famous  throughout  the  Midlands).  ‘ There  is  noth- 
ing in  it — Captain  Dell  is  certain — that  would  injure 
the  estate.  You  have  such  masses  of  timber ! And, 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 


195 


if  you  don’t  sell,  you  may  find  it  commandeered. 
You  know  what’s  happened  to  Lord  Radley?’ 

The  Squire  sulkily  demanded  to  be  informed. 
Elizabeth  told  the  story,  standing  at  his  desk,  like 
a clerk  making  a report.  It  seemed  to  enrage  her 
auditor. 

‘ This  accursed  war!  ’ he  broke  out,  when  she  had 
finished^ — ‘ it  makes  slaves  and  idiots  of  us  all.  It 
must—it  shall  end  1 ’ And  marching  tempestuously 
up  and  down,  he  went  off  into  one  of  the  pessimist 
and  pacifist  harangues  to  which  she  was  more  or 
less  accustomed.  Who  would  rid  the  country  of  a 
Government  that  could  neither  make  peace  nor  make 
war-?— that  foresaw  nothing — that  was  making  life 
unbearable  at  home,  by  a network  of  senseless  re- 
strictions, while  it  wasted  millions  abroad,  and  in  the 
military  camps!  The  Labour  Party  were  the  only 
people  with  a grain  of  sense.  They  at  least  would 
try  to  make  peace.  Only,  when  they  had  made  it, 
to  be  governed  by  them  would  be  even  worse  than 
to  be  governed  by  Lloyd  George.  There  was  no 
possible  life  anywhere  for  decent  quiet  people.  And 
as  for  the  ravaging  and  ruin  of  the  woods  that  was 
going  on  all  over  England 

‘ The  submarine  return  is  worse  this  week,’  said 
Elizabeth  in  a low  voice. 

She  had  gone  to  her  own  table  and  was  sitting 
there  till  the  hurricane  should  pass  over.  There 
was  in  her  a fresh  and  chafing  sense  of  the  obstacles 
laid  in  her  path — the  path  of  the  scientific  and  suc- 
cessful organizer — by  the  Squire’s  perversities.  It 
was  not  as  though  he  were  a pacifist  by  conviction, 
religious  or  other.  She  had  seen  him  rout  and 
trample  on  not  a few  genuine  professors  of  the 
faith.  His  whole  opposition  to  the  war  rested  on 


196  ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 

the  limitations  and  discomforts  Inflicted  on  his  own 
life.  It  reminded  her  of  certain  fragments  of  dia- 
logue she  had  overheard  in  the  winter,  where  she 
had  chanced  to  find  herself  alone  in  a railway  car- 
riage full  of  a group  of  disaffected  workmen  return- 
ing from  a strike  meeting  at  Leicester.  ‘ If  there 
are  many  like  these,  is  the  country  worth  saving?’ 
she  was  saying  to  herself  all  the  time,  in  a dumb 
passion. 

Yet,  after  all,  those  men  had  done  months  and 
years  of  labour  for  the  country.  Saying  ‘ I will  not 
go ! ’ they  had  yet  gone.  Without  a spark  of  high 
feeling  or  conscious  self-sacrifice  to  ease  their  toil, 
they  had  yet,  week  by  week,  made  the  guns  and  the 
shells  which  had  saved  the  armies  of  England.  When 
this  temporary  outbreak  was  over  they  would  go 
back  and  make  them  again.  And  they  were 
tired  men — sallow-faced,  and  bowed  before  their 
time. 

But  what  had  this  whimsical,  accomplished  man 
before  her  ever  done  for  his  country  that  he  should 
rail  like  this?  It  was  dlflicult  after  a tiring  day  to 
keep  scorn  and  dissent  concealed.  They  probably 
showed  in  her  expression,  for  the  Squire  turned 
upon  her  as  she  made  her  remark  about  the  sub- 
marines, examining  her  with  a pair  of  keen  eyes. 

‘ Oh,  I know  very  well  what  you  and  that  fellow 
Chicksands  think  about  persons  like  me  who  en- 
deavour to  see  things  as  they  are!’ — he  smote  a 
chair  before  him — ‘ and  not  as  you  and  our  war- 
party  wish  them  to  be.  Well,  well — now  then  to 
business.  Who  wants  to  cut  my  woods — and  what 
do  they  offer  for  them?’ 

Elizabeth  put  the  papers  In  front  of  him.  He 
turned  them.  over. 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 


197 

‘ H’m — they  want  the  Cross  Wood — one  of  the 
most  beautiful  woods  in  England.  I have  spent  days 
there  when  I was  young  drawing  the  trees.  And 
who’s  the  idiot  ’ — he  pointed  to  some  marginal 
notes — ‘ who  is  always  carping  and  girding?  “ Good 
forestry  ” would  have  done  this  and  not  done  that. 
“ Mismanagement  ” — “ neglect  ” ! Upon  my  word, 
who  made  this  man  a judge  over  me?  ’ 

And  flushed  with  wrath,  the  Squire  looked  angrily 
at  his  secretary.  ‘ Heavens ! ’ — thought  Elizabeth — 
‘ why  didn’t  I edit  the  papers  before  I showed 
them?  ’ But  aloud  she  said  with  her  good-tempered 
smile — 

‘ I am  afraid  I took  all  those  remarks  as  applying 
to  Mr.  Hull.  He  was  responsible  for  the  woods, 
wasn’t  he?  He  told  me  he  was.’ 

‘ Nothing  of  the  kind!  In  the  end  the  owner  is 
responsible.  This  fellow  is  attacking  me!  ’ 

Elizabeth  said  nothing.  She  could  only  wait  in 
hope  to  see  how  the  large  sums  mentioned  in  the 
contract  might  work. 

‘ “ Maximum  price  ” I What’s  this? — “ Had  Mr. 
Mannering  been  willing  to  enter  into  negotiations 
with  us  last  year,”  ’ — the  Squire  began  to  read  a let- 
ter accompanying  the  draft  contract — ‘ “ when  we 
approached  him,  we  should  probably  have  been  able 
to  offer  him  a better  price.  But  under  the  scale  of 
prices  now  fixed  by  the  Government ” ’ 

The  owner  of  Mannering  bounded  out  of  his  seat. 

‘ And  you  actually  mean  to  say  that  I may  not 
only  be  forced  to  sell  my  woods — but  whether  I am 
forced  or  not,  I can  only  sell  them  at  the  Govern- 
ment price?  Intolerable! — absolutely  intolerable! 
Every  day  that  Englishmen  put  up  with  these  tyr- 
annies is  a disgrace  to  the  country ! ’ 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 


198 

‘ The  country  must  have  artillery  waggons  and 
aeroplanes,’  said  Elizabeth,  softly.  ‘ Where  are  we 
to  get  the  wood?  There  are  not  ships  enough  to 
bring  it  overseas?  ’ 

‘ And  suppose  I grant  you  that — why  am  I not 
to  get  my  fair  price — like  anybody  else?  Just  tell 
me  that ! ’ 

‘ Why,  everybody’s  “ controlled  ” ! ’ cried  Eliza- 
beth. 

‘ Pshaw!  I am  sorry  to  be  uncivil  ’ — a sarcastic 
bov/  in  her  direction — ‘ but  I really  must  point  out 
that  you  talk  nonsense.  Look  at  the  money  in  the 
banks — look  at  the  shops  and  the  advertisements — 
look  at  the  money  that  people  pay  for  pictures,  and 
old  books,  and  autographs.  Somebody’ s making 
profits — that’s  clear.  But  a wretched  landowner — 
with  a few  woods  to  sell — it  is  easy  to  victimize 
him ! ’ 

‘ It  comes  to  a large  sum,’  said  Elizabeth,  looking 
down.  At  last  she  v/as  conscious  of  a real  exaspera- 
tion with  the  Squire.  For  four  months  now  she  had 
been  wrestling  with  him — for  his  own  good  and  the 
country’s,  and  everything  had  always  to  be  begun 
again.  Suddenly  her  spirits  drooped. 

The  Squire  observed  her  furtively  out  of  the 
corners  of  his  eyes.  Then  he  turned  to  the  last  page 
of  the  contract,  with  its  final  figures.  His  eyebrows 
went  up. 

‘ The  man’s  a fool!  ’ he  said  vehemently.  ‘ I 
know  the  value  of  my  own  timber  a great  deal  better 
than  he.  They’re  not  worth  a third  of  what  they 
put  them  at.’ 

‘ Even  at  the  Government  price?  ’ Elizabeth  ven- 
tured slyly.  ‘ He’ll  be  very  glad  to  give  it ! ’ 

‘ Then  it’s  blackmailing  the  country,’  said  the 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 


199 

Squire  obstinately.  ‘ I loathe  the  war,  but  I’m  not  a 
profiteer.’ 

Elizabeth  was  silent.  If  the  Squire  persisted  in 
rejecting  this  deal,  which  he  had  himself  invited  in 
another  mood,  half  her  dreams  for  the  future,  the 
dreams  of  a woman  just  beginning  to  feel  the  intoxi- 
cation of  power,  or,  to  put  it  better,  the  creative 
passion  of  the  reformer,  were  undone.  She  had 
already  saved  the  Squire  much  money.  When  all 
reasonable  provision  had  been  made  for  Investment, 
replanting,  and  the  rest,  this  sale  would  still  leave 
enough  to  transform  the  estate  and  scores  of  human 
lives  upon  it.  Her  will  chafed  hotly  under  the  curb 
imposed  upon  it  by  the  caprices  of  a master  for 
whom — save  only  as  a Greek  scholar — she  had  little 
respect.  After  a while,  as  the  Squire  was  still  turn- 
ing over  the  contract  with  occasional  grunts  and 
mutterings,  she  asked — 

‘ Will  you  please  tell  me  what  I am  to 
reply?  ’ 

Her  voice  was  cold  and  measured. 

The  Squire  threw  up  his  white  head. 

‘ What  hurry  is  there?  ’ he  said  testily. 

‘ Oh,  none — if  you  wish  it  delayed.  Only — ’ she 
hesitated — ‘ Captain  Dell  tells  me  the  Government 
inspectors  are  already  In  the  neighbourhood.  He 
expects  them  here  before  long.’ 

‘ And  if  I make  a stand — if  I oppose  you — well — 
it’ll  be  the  gates  over  again  ? ’ She  shrugged  her 
shoulders. 

‘ We  must  try  to  find  the  money  some  other  way. 

It  is  badly  wanted.  I thought ’ 

^ ‘ You  thought  I had  authorized  this — and  you’ve 
given  all  your  work  for  nothing?  You  think  I’m  an 
impossible  person?’ 


200 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 


Suddenly  she  found  him  sitting  beside  her.  Per- 
force she  looked  him  in  the  face. 

‘ Don’t  give  notice  again ! ’ he  said,  almost  with 
passion. 

‘ It’s  not  so  easy  now,’  she  said,  with  a rather  un- 
certain voice. 

‘ Because  you’ve  done  so  much  for  me? — because 
you’ve  slaved  and  put  your  heart  into  it?  That’s 
true.  Well  now,  look  here.  We’ll  put  that  beastly 
thing  away  to-night — perhaps  I shall  be  in  a better 
temper  in  a few  days.’ 

There  was  a note  in  his  voice  he  seemed  unable 
to  keep  out  of  it.  Elizabeth  looking  up  caught  the 
fire  light  on  the  sketch  of  Desmond.  Had  ithe 
Squire’s  eyes  been  on  it  too?  Impossible  to  say — 
for  he  had  already  turned  away. 

‘ Oh,  yes, — put  it  away ! ’ she  said  hurriedly. 

‘And  I’ll  go  over  the  woods  with  you  on — Fri- 
day,’ said  the  Squire  after  a pause.  ‘ Oh,  I don’t 
deny  that  the  money  is  tempting.  I’m  not  such  a 
pauper  as  I once  was,  thanks  to  you.  I seem  to 
have  some  money  in  the  bank — astonishing  situa- 
tion ! And — there’s  a jolly  good  sale  at  Christie’s 
coming  on.’ 

He  looked  at  her  half-shamefaced,  half-ready  to 
resent  it  if  she  laughed  at  him. 

Her  eyes  laughed. 

‘ I thought  you’d  forgotten  that.  I saw  you  mark 
the  catalogue.’ 

‘ Beech  and  oak  between  two  and  three 
hundred  years  old — in  exchange  for  Greek  gems, 
between  two  and  three  thousand.  Well — I’ll 
consider  it.  Now  then,  are  you  feeling  bet- 
ter ? ’ 

And  to  her  amazement  he  approached  her  with 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN  201 

an  outstretched  hand.  Elizabeth  mechanically 
placed  her  own  in  it. 

‘ I know  what  you  want,’  he  said  impetuously. 
‘ You’ve  got  a head  full  of  dreams.  They’re  not 
my  dreams — but  you’ve  a right  to  them — so  long 
as  you’re  kind  to  mine.’ 

‘ I try  to  be,’  she  said  with  a rather  tremulous 
lip. 

At  that  moment  the  library  door  opened.  Neither 
perceived  it.  Desmond  came  in  softly,  lest  his 
father  should  be  at  work.  A carved  oak  screen 
round  the  door  hid  his  entrance,  and  as  he  emerged 
into  the  light  his  eyes  caught  the  two  distant  figures 
standing  hand  in  hand. 

Instinctively  he  stepped  back  a few  paces  and 
noisily  opened  the  door.  The  Squire  walked  away. 

‘ Why,  Desmond ! ’ said  his  father,  as  the  boy 
emerged  into  the  light,  ‘ your  train’s  punctual  for 
once.  Thank  you.  Miss  Bremerton — that’ll  do. 
Kindly  write  to  those  people  and  say  that  I am 
considering  the  matter.  I needn’t  keep  you  any 
longer.  . . . ’ 

That  night  a demon  came  to  Elizabeth  and  offered 
her  a Faust-like  bargain.  Ambition — noble  ambition 
on  the  one  side — an  ‘ elderly  lunatic  ’ on  the  other. 
And  she  began  to  consider  it ! 


CHAPTER  XI 


EVERYBODY  in  Mannering  had  gone  to  bed 
but  Desnaond  and  Pamela.  It  was  not  certain 
indeed  that  the  Squire  had  gone  to  bed,  but  as 
there  was  a staircase  beside  one  of  the  doors  of 
the  library  leading  direct  to  his  room,  it  was  not 
likely  that  he  would  cross  the  hall  again.  The  twins 
felt  themselves  alone. 

‘ I daresay  there’ll  be  a raid  to-night,’  said  Des- 
mond, ‘ it’s  so  bright  and  still.  Put  down  that  lamp 
a moment,  Pamela.’ 

She  obeyed,  and  he  threw  away  his  cigarette,  went 
to  one  of  the  windows,  and  drew  up  the  blinds. 

‘ Listen!  ’ he  said,  holding  up  his  hatid.  Pamela 
came  to  his  side,  and  they  both  heard  through  the 
stillness  that  sound  of  distant  guns  which  no  English 
ear  had  heard — till  now — since  the  Civil  War. 

‘ And  there  are  the  searchlights  1 ’ 

For  over  London,  some  forty  miles  away  behind 
a low  range  of  hills,  faint  fingers  of  light  were 
searching  the  sky. 

‘ At  this  very  moment,  perhaps,’ — said  the  boy 
between  his  teeth — ‘ those  demons  are  blowing 
women  and  children  to  pieces — over  there ! ’ 

Pamela  shivered  and  laid  her  cheek  against  his 
shoulder.  But  both  he  and  she  were  aware  of  that 
strange  numbness  which  in  the  fourth  year  of  the 
war  has  been  creeping  over  all  the  belligerent  na- 
tions, so  that  horror  has  lost  its  first  edge,  and  the 
minds,  whether  of  soldiers  in  the  field,  or  of  civilians 
at  home,  have  become  hardened  to  facts  or  ideas 


202 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN  203 

which  would  once  have  stirred  in  them  wild  fer- 
ments of  rage  and  terror. 

‘Shall  we  win,  this  year,  Desmond?’  said  Pam- 
ela, as  they  stood  gazing  out  into  the  park,  where, 
above  a light  silvery  mist  a young  moon  was  riding 
in  a clear  blue.  Not  a branch  stirred  in  the  great 
leafless  trees;  only  an  owl’s  plaintive  cry  seemed  to 
keep  in  rhythm  with  that  sinister  murmur  on  the 
horizon. 

‘Win? — this  year?’  said  the  boy,  with  a shrug. 
‘ Don’t  reckon  on  it,  Pam.  Those  Russian  fools 
have  dished  it  all  for  months ! ’ 

‘ But  the  Americans  will  make  up  ? ’ 

Desmond  assented  eagerly.  And  in  the  minds  of 
the  English  boy  and  girl  there  rose  a kind  of  vague 
vision  of  an  endless  procession  of  great  ships,  on 
a boundless  ocean,  carrying  men,  and  men,  and  more 
men — guns,  and  aeroplanes,  and  shining  piles  of 
shells — bringing  the  New  World  to  the  help  of  the 
Old. 

Desmond  turned  to  his  sister, 

‘ Look  here,  Pam,  this  time  next  week  I shall  be 
in  the  line.  Well,  I daresay  I shan’t  be  at  the  actual 
front  for  a week  or  two — but  it  won’t  be  long.  We 
shall  want  every  battery  we’ve  got.  Nov/ — suppose 
I don’t  come  back?’ 

‘ Desmond ! ’ 

‘ For  goodness’  sake,  don’t  be  silly,  old  girl. 
We’ve  got  to  look  at  it,  you  know.  The  death-rate 
of  men  of  my  age  ’ {men! — Desmond,  a man!) 

‘ has  gone  up  to  about  four  times  what  it  was  before 
the  war.  I saw  that  in  one  of  the  papers  this  morn- 
ing. I’ve  only  got  a precious  small  chance.  And  if 
I don’t  come  back,  I want  to  know  what  you’re  go- 
ing to  do  with  yourself.’ 


204 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 


‘ I don’t  care  what  happens  to  me  if  you  don’t 
come  back!’  said  the  girl  passionately.  She  was 
leaning  with  folded  arms  against  the  side  of  the 
window,  the  moonlight,  or  something  else,  blanching 
the  face  and  her  fair  hair. 

Desmond  looked  at  her  with  a troubled  expres- 
sion. For  two  or  three  years  past  he  had  felt  a 
special  responsibility  towards  this  twin-sister  of  his. 
Who  was  there  to  look  after  her  but  he?  He  saw 
that  his  father  never  gave  her  a serious  thought, 
and  as  to  Aubrey — well,  he  too  seemed  to  have 
no  room  in  his  mind  for  Pam — poor  old  Pam! 

‘ How  are  you  getting  on  with  Broomie  ? ’ he  asked 
suddenly. 

‘ I don’t  like  her!  ’ said  Pamela  fiercely.  ‘ I shall 
never  like  her ! ’ 

‘ Well,  that’s  awkward,’ — said  the  boy  slowly, 
‘ because ’ 

‘ Because  w'hat?  ’ 

‘ Because  I believe  she  means  to  marry  father ! ’ 

Pamela  laughed  angrily. 

‘ Ah,  you’ve  found  that  out  too ! ’ 

Desmond  pulled  down  the  blind  again,  and  they 
went  back  to  the  fire,  sitting  on  the  floor  beside  it, 
with  their  arms  round  each  other,  as  they  had  been 
used  to  do  as  children.  And  then  in  a low  voice, 
lest  any  ears  in  the  sleeping  house  should  be,  after 
all,  on  the  alert,  he  told  her  what  he  had  seen  in 
the  library.  He  was  rather  ashamed  of  telling  her; 
only  there  was  this  queer  sense  of  last  words — 
of  responsibility — for  his  sister,  which  excused 
it. 

Pamela  listened  despondently. 

‘ Perhaps  they’re  engaged  already!  Well, — I can 
tell  you  this — if  father  does  marry  her,  she’ll  rule 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN  205 

him,  and  me — if  I give  her  the  chance — and  every- 
body on  the  place,  with  a rod  of  iron.’ 

Desmond  at  first  remonstrated.  He  had  been 
taken  aback  by  the  sudden  vision  in  the  library;  and 
Pamela’s  letters  for  some  time  past  had  tended  to 
alter  his  first  liking  for  ‘ Broomie  ’ into  a feeling 
more  distrustful  and  uncertain.  But,  after  all, 
Broomie’s  record  must  be  remembered.  ‘ She 
wouldn’t  sign  that  codicil  thing — she  made  father 
climb  down  about  the  gates — and  Sir  Henry  says 
she’s  begun  to  pull  the  estate  together  like  anything, 
and  If  father  will  only  let  her  alone  for  a year  or 
two  she’ll  make  him  a rich  man.’ 

‘ Oh,  I know,’  said  Pamela  gloomily,  ‘ she’s  paid 
most  of  the  bills  already.  When  I go  into  Fallerton 
now — everybody — all  the  tradesmen  are  as  sweet  as 
sugar.’ 

‘Well,  that’s  something  to  the  good,  isn’t  it? 
Don’t  be  unfair ! ’ 

‘ I’m  not  unfair ! ’ cried  Pamela.  ‘ Don’t  you  see 
how  she  just  swallows  up  everybody’s  attention — 
how  nobody  else  matters  when  she’s  there ! How 
can  you  expect  me  to  like  that — if  she  were  an  arch- 
angel— which  she  isn’t ! ’ 

‘ But  has  she  done  anything  nasty — anything  to 
bother  you  ? ’ 

‘ Well,  of  course,  I’m  just  a cypher  when  she’s 
there.  I’m  afraid  I oughtn’t  to  mind — but  I do ! ’ 

And  Pamela,  with  her  hands  round  her  knees, 
stared  Into  the  fire  In  bitterness  of  spirit.  She 
couldn’t  explain,  even  to  Desmond,  that  the  Inward 
eye  all  the  time  was  tormented  by  two  kindred  vi- 
sions— Arthur  in  the  hall  that  afternoon,  talking  war 
work  with  Elizabeth  with  such  warm  and  eager  def- 
erence, and  Arthur  on  Holme  Hill,  stretched  at 


2o6 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 


Elizabeth’s  feet,  and  bandying  classical  chaff  with 
her.  And  there  was  a third,  still  more  poignant,  of 
a future  in  which  Elizabeth  would  be  always  there, 
the  centre  of  the  picture,  mistress  of  the  house,  the 
clever  and  charming  woman,  beside  whom  girls  in 
their  teens  had  no  chance. 

She  was  startled  out  of  these  reflections  by  a 
remark  from  Desmond. 

‘ You  know,  Pam,  you  ought  to  get  married  soon.’ 

The  boy  spoke  shyly — but  gravely  and  decidedly. 
Pam  thought  with  a sudden  anguish — ‘ He  would 
never  have  said  that,  unless ’ 

She  laid  her  head  on  his  shoulder,  clinging  to 
him. 

‘ I shan’t  get  married,  old  boy.’ 

‘ Oh,  that’s  nonsense ! Look  here,  Pam — ^you 
mustn’t  mind  my  poking  my  nose  into  things  where 
I’ve  no  business.  You  see,  it’s  because — Well,  I’ve 
sometimes  thought — punch  my  head,  if  you  like ! — 
that  you  had  a fancy  for  Arthur  Chicksands.’ 

Pamela  laughed. 

‘ Well,  as  he  hasn’t  got  any  fancy  for  me,  you 
needn’t  take  that  into  your  dear  old  head!’ 

‘ Why,  he  was  always  very  fond  of  you,  Pam.’ 

‘ Oh,  yes,  he  liked  ragging  me  when  I was  a child. 
I’m  not  good  enough  for  him  now.’ 

‘ What  do  you  mean — not  good  enough?  ’ 

‘ Not  clever  enough,  you  silly  old  boy.  He’ll 
marry  somebody  much  older  than  me.’ 

Desmond  ruminated. 

‘ He  seemed  to  be  getting  on  with  Broomie  this 
afternoon  ? ’ 

‘ Magnificently.  He  always  does.  She’s  his  sort. 
She  writes  to  him.’ 

‘ Oh,  does  she  ? ’ The  boy’s  voice  was  dry  and 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN  207 

hostile.  He  began  to  understand,  or  thought  he 
did.  Miss  Bremerton  was  not  only  plotting  to  marry 
his  father — had  perhaps  been  plotting  for  it  from 
the  beginning — but  was  besides  playing  an  unfair 
game  with  Pam — spoiling  Pam’s  chances — cutting 
in  where  she  wasn’t  wanted — grabbing,  in  fact. 
Anger  was  mounting  in  him.  Why  should  his  father 
be  mopped  up  like  this? — and  Pamela  made  un- 
happy? 

‘ I’d  jolly  well  like  to  stop  it  all!  ’ he  said,  under 
his  breath. 

‘Stop  what?  You  dear,  foolish  old  man!  You 
can’t  stop  it,  Dezzy.’ 

‘Well,  if  she’ll  only  make  him  happy ! ’ 

‘ Oh,  she’ll  be  quite  decent  to  him,’  said  Pamela, 
with  a shrug,  ‘ but  she’ll  despise  him ! ’ 

‘What  the  deuce  do  you  mean,  Pam?’ 

Whereupon,  quite  conscious  that  she  was  obeying 
an  evil  and  feverish  impulse,  but  unable  to  control 
it,  Pamela  went  into  a long  and  passionate  justifica-i 
tion  of  what  she  had  said.  A number  of  small  in- 
cidents— trifling  acts  and  sayings  of  Elizabeth’s — 
misinterpreted  and  twisted  by  the  girl’s  jealous  pain, 
were  poured  into  Desmond’s  ears. 

‘ All  the  servants  know  that  she  treats  father  like 
a baby.  She  and  Forest  manage  him  in  little  things 
— in  the  house — just  as  she  runs  the  estate.  For 
instance,  she  does  just  what  she  likes  with  the  fruit 
and  the  flowers ’ 

‘Why,  yoz/  ought  to  do  all  that,  Pam!’ 

‘ I tried  when  I came  home  from  school.  Father 
wouldn’t  let  me  do  a thing.  But  she  does  just  what 
she  pleases.  You  can  hear  her  and  Forest  laughing 
over  it.  Oh,  it’s  all  right,  of  course.  She  sends 
things  to  hospitals  every  week.’ 


208 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 


‘ That  was  what  you  used  to  want.’ 

‘ I do  want  it — but ’ 

‘ You  ought  to  have  the  doing  of  it?  ’ 

‘ Oh,  I don’t  know.  I’m  away  all  day.  But  she 
might  at  least  pretend  to  refer  to  him — or  me — 
sometimes.  It’s  the  same  in  everything.  She  twists 
father  round  her  little  finger;  and  you  can  see  all 
the  time  what  she  thinks — that  there  never  was  such 
a bad  landlord,  or  such  a miserable,  feckless  crew  as 
the  rest  of  us,  before  she  came  to  put  us  straight!  ’ 
Desmond  listened — partly  resisting — but  finally 
carried  away.  By  the  time  their  talk  was  over  he 
felt  that  he  too  hated  Elizabeth  Bremerton,  and 
that  it  was  horrid  to  have  to  leave  Pamela  with 
her. 

When  they  said  good-night  Pamela  threw  herself 
on  her  bed  face  downwards,  more  wretched  than  she 
had  ever  been — wretched  because  Desmond  was  go- 
ing, and  might  be  killed,  wretched,  too,  because  her 
conscience  told  her  that  she  had  spoilt  his  last 
evening,  and  made  him  exceedingly  unhappy,  by  a lot 
of  exaggerated  complaints.  She  was  degenerating — 
she  knew  it.  ‘ I am  a little  beast,  compared  to  what 
I was  when  I left  school,’  she  confessed  to  herself 
with  tears,  and  did- not  know  how  to  get  rid  of  this 
fiery  plague  that  was  eating  at  her  heart.  She  seemed 
to  look  back  to  a time — only  yesterday ! — when 
poetry  and  high  ideals,  friendships  and  religion  filled 
her  mind;  and  now  nothing — nothing! — was  of  any 
importance,  but  the  look,  the  voice,  the  touch  of  a 
man. 

The  next  day,  Desmond’s  last  day  at  home,  for 
he  was  due  in  London  by  the  evening,  was  gloomy 
and  embarrassed  for  all  concerned.  Elizabeth,  pre- 
occupied and  shrinking  from  her  own  thoughts,  could 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 


209 


not  imagine  what  had  happened.  She  had  put  off 
all  her  engagements  for  the  day,  that  she  might  help 
in  any  last  arrangements  that  might  have  to  be 
made  for  Desmond. 

But  Desmond  declined  to  be  helped,  not  rudely, 
but  with  a decision,  which  took  Elizabeth  aback. 

‘ Mayn’t  I look  out  some  books  for  you?  I have 
found  some  more  pocket  classics,’  she  had  said  to 
him  with  a smile,  remembering  his  application  to  her 
in  the  autumn. 

‘ No,  thank  you.  I shall  have  no  time.’  And  with 
that,  a prompt  retreat  to  Pamela  and  the  Den. 
Elizabeth,  indeed,  who  was  all  eagerness  to  serve 
him,  found  herself  rebuffed  at  every  turn. 

Nor  were  matters  any  better  with  Pamela,  who 
had  cried  off  her  hospital  work  in  order  to  pack  for 
Desmond.  Elizabeth,  seeing  her  come  downstairs 
with  an  armful  of  khaki  shirts  to  be  marked,  offered 
assistance — almost  timidly.  But  Pamela’s  ‘ Thank 
you,  but  I’d  rather  not  trouble  you — I can  do  it  quite 
well  ’ — was  so  frosty  that  Elizabeth  could  only  re- 
tire— bewildered — to  the  library,  where  she  and  the 
Squire  gave  a morning’s  work  to  the  catalogue,  and 
never  said  a word  of  farm  or  timber. 

But  the  Squire  worked  irritably,  finding  fault  with 
a number  of  small  matters,  and  often  wandering 
away  into  the  house  to  see  what  Desmond  was  do- 
ing. During  these  intervals  Elizabeth  would  sit, 
pen  in  hand,  staring  absently  into  the  dripping  gar- 
den and  the  park  beaten  by  a cold  rain.  The  future 
began  to  seem  to  her  big  with  events  and  perplexity. 

Then  with  the  evening  came  the  boy’s  leave-tak- 
ing; full  of  affection  towards  his  father  and  sister, 
and  markedly  chilly  in  the  case  of  Elizabeth.  When 
the  station  taxi  had  driven  off,  Elizabeth — with  that 


210 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 


cold  touch  of  the  boy’s  fingers  still  tingling  on  her 
hand — turned  from  the  front  door  to  see  Pamela 
disappearing  to  the  schoolroom,  and  the  Squire 
fidgeting  with  an  evening  paper  which  the  taxi  had 
brought  him  from  the  station. 

Elizabeth  suddenly  noticed  the  shaking  of  the 
paper,  over  which  only  the  crest  of  white  hair 
showed.  Too  bad  of  Pamela  to  have  gone  off 
without  a word  to  her  father!  Was  it  sympathy 
with  the  Squire,  or  resentment  on  her  own  account, 
that  made  Elizabeth  go  up  to  him? — though  at  a 
respectful  distance. 

‘ Shall  we  finish  the  bit  of  translation  we  began 
this  morning,  if  you’re  not  busy?’  she  said  gently. 
It  was  very  rarely  now  that  she  was  able  to  do  any 
classical  work  after  the  mornings. 

The  Squire  threw  down  the  newspaper,  and 
strode  on  before  her  to  the  library  without  a word. 
Elizabeth  followed.  Rain  and  darkness  had  been 
shut  out.  The  wood  fire  glowed  on  the  hearth,  and 
its  ruddy  light  was  on  the  face  of  the  Nike,  and  its 
solemn  outstretched  wings.  All  the  apparatus  of 
their  common  work  was  ready,  the  work  that  both 
loved.  Elizabeth  felt  a sudden,  passionate  drawing 
towards  this  man  twenty  years  older  than  herself, 
which  seemed  to  correspond  to  the  new  and  smart- 
ing sense  of  alienation  from  the  twins  and  their  raw, 
unjust  youth.  What  had  been  the  reason  for  their 
behaviour  to  her  that  day? — what  had  she  done? 
She  was  conscious  of  long  weeks  of  effort.  In  Pam- 
ela’s case, — trying  to  please  and  win  her;  and  of  a 
constant  tender  interest  In  Desmond,  which  had 
never  missed  an  opportunity  of  doing  or  suggesting 
something  he  might  like — all  for  this  I She  must 
have  offended  them  she  supposed  in  some  way;  how. 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 


21  I 


she  could  not  imagine.  But  her  mood  was  sore;  and, 
self-controlled  as  she  was,  her  pulse  raced. 

Here,  however,  she  was  welcome,  she  was  needed; 
she  could  distract  and  soothe  a bitterness  of  soul 
best  measured  by  the  Squire’s  most  unusual  tacitur- 
nity. No  railing  at  the  Government  or  the  war,  not 

a fling  even  at  the  ‘ d d pedant,  Chicksands ! ’ 

or  ‘ The  Bubbly-jocks,’  as  he  liked  to  call  the  mem- 
bers of  the  County  War  Committee.  Elizabeth  put 
a text  of  Aristophanes — the  Pax — into  his  hands, 
and  drew  her  table  near  to  him,  waiting  his  pleasure. 
There  was  a lamp  behind  him  which  fell  on  her 
broad,  white  brow,  her  waiting  eyes  and  hand,  and 
all  the  friendly  intelligence  of  her  face.  The  Squire 
began  haltingly,  lost  his  place,  almost  threw  the  book 
away;  but  she  cheered  him  on,  admired  this  phrase, 
delicately  amended  that,  till  the  latent  passion  had 
gripped  him,  and  he  was  soon  in  full  swing,  revelling 
in  all  the  jests  and  topicalities  of  the  play,  where 
the  strikers  and  pacifists,  the  profiteers,  the  soldiers 
and  munition  workers  of  two  thousand  odd  years 
ago,  fight  and  toil,  prate  and  wrangle  and  scheme, 
as  eager  and  as  alive  as  their  descendants  of  to-day. 
Soon  his  high,  tempestuous  laugh  rang  out;  Eliza- 
beth’s gentler  mirth  answering.  Sometimes  there 
was  a dispute  about  a word  or  a rendering;  she 
would  put  up  her  own  view,  with  obstinacy,  so  that 
he  might  have  the  pleasure  of  knocking  it  down. 
And  all  through  there  was  the  growing  sense  of 
comradeship,  of  mutual  understanding,  which,  in 
their  classical  work  at  least,  had  been  always  present 
for  Elizabeth,  since  her  first  acquaintance  with  her 
strange  employer. 

When  she  rose,  reluctantly,  at  the  sound  of  the 
dressing-bell,  the  Squire  paced  up  and  down  while 


212 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 


she  put  her  books  and  papers  away.  Then  as  she 
was  going,  he  turned  abruptly — 

‘ I told  Forest  to  order  the  Times — will  you  see 
he  does  it?  ’ 

‘ Certainly.’ 

‘ I loathe  all  newspapers,’  he  said  sombrely.  ‘ If 
we  must  go  to  the  devil,  I don’t  want  to  know  too 

much  about  it.  But  still ’ 

She  waited  a moment,  but  as  nothing  more  came 
she  was  leaving  the  room,  when  he  added — 

‘ And  don’t  forget  the  timber  business  to-morrow 
afternoon.  Tell  Dell  to  meet  us  in  Cross  Wood.’ 

When  she  had  gone,  the  Squire  still  continued  pac- 
ing, absorbed  in  meeting  the  attack  of  new  and 
strange  ideas.  He  had  alw'ays  been  a man  with  a 
singularly  small  reflective  gift.  Self-examination — 
introspection  of  any  sort — were  odious  to  him.  He 
lived  on  stimulus  from  outside,  attracted  or  repelled, 
amused  or  interested,  bored  or  angry,  as  the  succes- 
sion of  events  or  impressions  might  dictate.  To 
collect  beautiful  things  was  a passion  with  him,  and 
he  was  proud  of  the  natural  taste  and  instinct,  which 
generally  led  him  right.  But  for  ‘ aesthetics  ’ — 
the  philosophy  of  art — he  had  nothing  but  contempt. 
The  volatile,  restless  mind  escaped  at  once  from  the 
concentration  asked  of  it;  and  fell  back  on  what  the 
Buddhist  calls  ‘ Maia,’  the  gay  and  changing  appear- 
ances of  things,  which  were  all  he  wanted.  And 
it  was  because  the  war  had  Interfered  with  this  pleas- 
ant and  perpetual  challenge  to  the  senses  of  the  outer 
world,  because  it  forced  a man  back  on  general  ideas 
that  he  did  not  want  to  consider — God,  Country, 
Citizenship — that  the  Squire  had  hated  the  war. 
But  this  woman  who  had  become  an  inmate  of 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 


213 


his  house,  while  she  ministered  to  all  the  tastes  that 
the  Squire  had  built  up  as  a screen  between  himself 
and  either  the  tragic  facts  of  contemporary  life,  or 
any  troublesome  philosophizing  about  them,  was  yet 
gradually,  imperceptibly,  drawing  the  screen  aside. 
Her  humanity  was  developing  the  feeble  shoots  of 
sympathy  and  conscience  in  himself.  What  she  felt, 
he  was  beginning  to  feel;  and  when  she  hated  any- 
thing he  must  at  least  uncomfortably  consider  why. 

But  all  this  she  did  and  achieved  through  her  mere 
fitness  and  delightfulness  as  a companion.  He  had 
never  imagined  that  life  would  bring  him  anybody — 
least  of  all  a woman — who  would  both  give  him  so 
much,  and  save  him  so  much.  Selfish,  exacting,  ir- 
ritable— he  knew  very  well  that  he  was  all  three. 
But  it  had  not  prevented  this  capable,  kind,  clever 
creature  from  devoting  herself  to  him,  from  doing 
her  utmost,  not  only  to  save  his  estate  and  his  in- 
come, but  to  make  his  life  once  more  agreeable  to 
him,  in  spite  of  the  war  and  all  the  rancour  and 
resentments  it  had  stirred  up  in  him. 

How  patient  she  had  been  with  these  last!  He 
was  actually  beginning  to  be  ashamed  of  some  of 
them.  And  now  to-night — what  made  her  come  and 
give  him  the  extra  pleasure  of  her  company  these 
two  hours?  Sympathy,  he  supposed,  about  Des- 
mond. 

Well,  he  was  grateful;  and  for  the  first  time  his 
heart  reached  out  for  pity — almost  humbled  itself — 
accepted  the  human  lot.  If  Desmond  were  killed, 
he  would  never  choose  to  go  on  living.  Did  she 
know  that?  Was  it  because  she  guessed  at  the  feel- 
ings he  had  always  done  his  best  to  hide  that  she 
had  been  so  good  to  him  that  evening? 

What  as  to  that  love-story  of  hers — her  family? — 


4 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 


hei-  brother  in  Mesopotamia?  He  began  to  feel  a 
hundred  curiosities  about  her,  and  a strong  wish  to 
make  life  easy  for  her,  as  she  had  been  making  it 
easy  for  him.  But  she  was  excessively  proud  and 
scrupulous — that  he  had  long  since  found  out.  No 
use  offering  to  double  her  salary,  now  that  she  had 
saved  him  all  this  money!  His  first  advance  in  that 
direction  had  merely  offended  her.  The  Squire 
thought  vaguely  of  the  brother — no  doubt  a young 
lieutenant.  Could  Interest  be  made  for  him? — with 
some  of  the  bigwigs.  Then  his — very  Intermittent — 
sense  of  humour  asserted  itself.  He  to  make  Inter- 
est with  anybody — for  anybody — in  connection  with 
the  war ! He,  who  had  broken  with  every  soldier- 
friend  he  ever  had,  because  of  his  opinions  about 
the  war ! — and  was  anathema  throughout  the  coun- 
try for  the  same  reason.  Like  all  members  of  old 
families  in  this  country  he  had  a number  of  aristo- 
cratic and  wealthy  kinsfolk,  the  result  of  Mannering 
marriages  in  the  past.  But  he  had  never  cared  for 
any  of  them,  except  to  a mild  degree  for  his  sister. 
Lady  Cassiobury,  who  was  ten  years  older  than 
himself,  and  still  paid  long  visits  to  Mannering, 
which  bored  him  hugely.  On  the  last  occasion, 
he  was  quite  aware  that  he  had  behaved  badly,  and 
was  now  in  her  black-books. 

No — there  was  nothing  to  be  done,  except  to  let 
this  wonderful  woman  have  her  own  way!  If  she 
wanted  to  cut  down  the  woods,  let  her! — if  she 
wanted  to  amuse  herself  by  rebuilding  the  village, 
and  could  find  the  money  out  of  the  estate,  let  her ! — 
it  would  occupy  her,  attach  her  to  the  place,  and  do 
him  no  harm. 

Yes,  attach  her  to  the  place;  bind  her!  hold  her! 
— that  was  what  he  wanted.  Otherwise,  how  hide- 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 


215 


ously  uncertain  it  all  was ! She  might  go  at  any  time. 
Her  mother  might  be  ill — old  ladies  have  a way 
of  being  ill.  Her  brother  might  be  wounded — or 
killed.  Either  of  those  events  would  carry  her  off — 
out  of  his  ken.  But  if  she  were  engaged  deeply 
enough  in  the  estate  affairs  she  would  surely  come 
back.  He  knew  her ! — she  hated  to  leave  things 
unfinished.  He  was  eager  now  to  heap  all  kinds 
of  responsibilities  upon  her.  He  would  be  meek 
and  pliable;  he  would  put  no  sort  of  obstacles  in 
her  way.  She  would  have  no  excuse  for  giving  him 
notice  again.  He  would  put  up  with  all  her  silly 
Jingoism — if  only  she  would  stay ! 

But  at  this  point  the  Squire  suddenly  pulled  up 
short  in  his  pacing  and  excitedly  asked  himself  the 
question,  which  half  the  people  about  him  were  al- 
ready beginning  to  ask. 

‘ Why  shouldn’t  I marry  her?  ’ 

He  stood  transfixed — the  colour  rising  in  his  thin 
cheeks. 

Hitherto  the  notion,  if  it  had  ever  knocked  at  the 
outer  door  of  the  brain,  had  been  chased  away  with 
mockery.  And  he  had  no  sooner  admitted  it  now 
than  he  drove  it  out  again.  He  was  simply  afraid 
of  it — in  terror  lest  any  suspicion  of  it  should  reach 
Elizabeth.  Her  loyalty,  her  single-mindedness,  her 
freedom  from  the  smallest  taint  of  intrigue — he 
would  have  answered  for  them  with  all  he  possessed. 
If,  for  a moment,  she  chose  to  think  that  he  had 
misinterpreted  her  kindness,  her  services  in  any  vile 
and  vulgar  way,  why,  he  m.ight  lose  her  on  the  in- 
stant! Let  him  walk  warily — do  nothing  at  least 
to  destroy  the  friend  in  her,  before  he  grasped  at 
anything  more. 

Besides,  how  could  she  put  up  with  him?  ‘ I am 


2i6 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 


the  dried  husk  of  a man ! ’ thought  the  Squire,  with 
vehemence.  ‘ I couldn’t  learn  her  ways  now,  nor 
she  mine.  No;  let  us  be  as  we  are — only  more  so ! ’ 

But  he  was  shaken  through  and  through;  first  by 
that  vanishing  of  his  boy  into  the  furnace  of  the 
war,  which  had  brought  him  at  last  within  the  grip 
of  the  common  grief,  the  common  fear,  and  now  by 
this  strange  thought  which  had  invaded  him. 

After  dinner,  Elizabeth,  who  was  rather  pale,  but 
as  cheerful  and  self-possessed  as  usual,  put  Mrs. 
Gaddesden’s  knitting  to  rights  at  least  three  times, 
and  held  the  wool  for  that  lady  to  wind  till  her  arm 
ached.  Then  Mrs.  Gaddesden  retired  to  bed;  the 
Squire,  who  with  only  occasional  mutterings  and 
mumblings  had  been  deep  in  Elizabeth’s  copy  of  the 
Times,  which  she  had  at  last  ventured  to  produce  in 
public,  went  off  to  the  library,  and  Elizabeth  and 
Pamela  were  left  in  the  hall  alone. 

Elizabeth  lingered  over  the  fire;  while  Pamela 
wondered  impatiently  why  she  did  not  go  to  her 
office  work  as  she  generally  did  about  nine  o’clock. 
Pamela’s  mood  was  more  thorny  than  ever.  Had 
she  not  seen  a letter  in  Elizabeth’s  handwriting  lying 
that  very  afternoon  on  the  hall-table  for  post — ad- 
dressed to  Captain  Chicksands,  D.S.O.,  War  Office, 
Whitehall?  Common  sense  told  her  that  it  prob- 
ably contained  nothing  but  an  answer  to  some  ques- 
tions Arthur  had  put  to  the  Squire’s  ‘ business  secre- 
tary ’ as  to  the  amount  of  ash  in  the  Squire’s  w^oods 
— Arthur’s  Intelligence  appointment  having  some- 
thing to  do  with  the  Air  Board.  But  the  mere  fact 
that  Elizabeth  should  be  writing  to  him  stirred  in- 
tolerable resentment  in  the  girl’s  passionate  heart. 
She  knew  very  well  that  it  was  foolish,  unreasonable, 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 


217 

but  could  no  more  help  it  than  a love-smitten  maiden 
of  old  Sicily.  It  was  her  hour  of  possession,  and 
she  was  struggling  with  it  blindly. 

And  Elizabeth,  the  shrewd  and  clever  Elizabeth, 
saw  nothing,  and  knew  nothing.  If  she  had  ever  for 
a passing  moment  suspected  the  possibility  of  ‘ an 
affair  ’ between  Arthur  Chicksands  and  Pamela,  she 
had  ceased  to  think  of  it.  The  eager  projects  with 
which  her  own  thoughts  were  teeming,  had  driven 
out  the  ordinary  preoccupations  of  womankind. 
Derelict  farms,  the  food-production  of  the  county, 
timber,  village  reconstruction,  war-work  of  various 
kinds,  what  time  was  there  left? — what  room? — in 
a mind  wrestling  with  a hundred  new  experiences, 
for  the  guessing  of  a girl’s  riddle? 

Yet  all  the  same  she  remained  her  just  and  kindly 
self.  She  was  troubled—much  troubled^ — by  the 
twins’  behaviour.  She  must  somehow  get  to  the  bot- 
tom of  it. 

So  that  when  only  she  and  Pamela  were  left  in  the 
hall  she  went  up  to  the  girl,  not  without  agitation. 

‘ Pamela — -won’t  you  tell  me  ? — have  I done  any- 
thing to  offend  you  and  Desmond?  ’ 

She  spoke  very  quietly,  but  her  tone  showed  her 
wounded.  Pamela  started  and  looked  up. 

‘ I don’t  know  what  you  mean,’  she  said  coldly. 
‘ Did  you  think  we  had  been  rude  to  you  ? ’ 

It  was  the  first  hostile  word  they  had  ever  ex- 
changed. 

Elizabeth  grew  pale. 

‘ I didn’t  say  anything  about  your  being  rude.  I 
asked  you  if  you  were  cross  with  me.’ 

‘ Oh — cross ! ’ said  Pamela,  suddenly  conscious  of 
a suffocating  excitement.  ‘ What’s  the  good  of  being 
cross?  It’s  you  who  are  mistress  here.’ 


2i8 


ELIZABETH’S  CA?vIPAIGN 


Elizabeth  fell  back  a step  in  dismay. 

‘ I do  think  you  ought  to  explain,’  she  said  after 
a moment.  ‘ If  I had  done  anything  you  didn’t  like — 
anything  you  thought  unkind,  I should  be  very  very 
sorry.’ 

Pamela  rose  from  her  seat.  Elizabeth’s  tone 
seemed  to  her  pure  hypocrisy.  All  the  bitter,  poison- 
ous stuff  she  had  poured  out  to  Desmond  the  night 
before  was  let  loose  again.  Stammering  and  pant- 
ing, she  broke  into  th^  vaguest  and  falsest  accusa- 
tions. 

She  was  ignored — she  was  a nobody  in  her  own 
home — everybody  knew  it  and  talked  of  it.  She 
wasn’t  jealous — oh  no  ! — she  was  simply  miserable  ! 
‘ Oh,  I daresay  you  can  no  more  help  it  than  I can. 
You,  of  course,  are  twenty  times  more  use  here  than 
I am.  I don’t  dispute  that.  But  I am  the  daughter 
of  the  house  after  all,  and  it  is  a little  hard  to  be 
so  shelved — so  absolutely  put  in  the  background ! — 
as  I am ’ 

‘ Don’t  I consult  you  whenever  I can?  haven’t  I 
done  my  best  to — ’ interrupted  Elizabeth,  only  to 
be  interrupted  in  her  turn. 

— ‘ to  persuade  father  to  let  me  do  things?  Yes, 
that’s  just  it! — you  persuade  father,  you  manage 
everything.  It’s  just  that  that’s  intolerable ! ’ 

And  flushed  with  passion,  extraordinarily  hand- 
some, Pamela  stood  tremulously  silent,  her  eyes  fixed 
on  Elizabeth.  Elizabeth,  too,  was  silent  for  a mo- 
ment. Then  she  said  with  steady  emphasis : 

‘ Of  course  there  can  only  be  one  end  to  this.  I 
can’t  possibly  stay  here.’ 

‘ Oh,  very  well,  go ! ’ cried  Pamela.  ‘ Go,  and  tell 
father  that  I’ve  made  you.  But  if  you  do,  neither 
you  nor  he  will  see  me  again  for  a good  while.’ 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 


219 


‘ What  do  you  mean  ? ’ 

‘ What  I say.  If  you  suppose  that  Vm  going  to 
stay  on  here  to  bear  the  brunt  of  father’s  temper 
after  he  Icnows  that  I’ve  made  you  throw  up,  you’re 
entirely  mistaken.’ 

‘ Then  what  do  you  propose  ? ’ 

‘ I don’t  know  what  I propose,’  said  Pamela,  shak- 
ing from  head  to  foot,  ‘ but  if  you  say  a word  to 
father  about  it  I shall  simply  disappear.  I shall  be 
able  to  earn  my  own  living  somehow.’ 

The  two  confronted  each  other. 

‘ And  you  really  think  I can  go  on  after  this  as 
if  nothing  had  happened?  ’ said  Elizabeth,  in  a low 
voice. 

Pangs  of  remorse  were  seizing  on  Pamela,  but  she 
stifled  them. 

‘ There’s  a way  out ! ’ she  said  presently,  her 
colour  coming  and  going.  ‘ I’ll  go  and  stay  with 
Margaret  in  town  for  a bit.  Why  should  there  be 
any  fuss?  She’s  asked  me  often  to  help  with  her 
war-v/orkroom  and  the  canteen.  Father  won’t  mind. 
He  doesn’t  care  in  the  least  what  I do ! And 
nobody  will  think  it  a bit  odd — if  you  and  I don’t 
talk.’_ 

Elizabeth  turned  away.  The  touch  of  scorn  in  her 
bearing  was  not  lost  on  Pamela. 

‘ And  if  I refuse  to  stay  on,  without  saying  or 
doing  anything— to  put  myself  right — you  threaten 
to  run  away  ? ’ 

‘ I do — I mean  it,’  said  Pamela  firmly.  She  had 
not  only  hardened  again  under  the  sting  of  that 
contempt  she  detected  in  Elizabeth,  but  there  was 
rising  up  in  her  a sudden  and  rapturous  vision  of 
London: — ^Arthur  at  the  War  Office — herself  on 
open  ground^ — no  longer  interfered  with  and  over- 


220 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 


shadowed.  He  would  come  to  see  her — take  her 
out,  perhaps,  sometimes  to  an  exhibition,  or  for  a 
walk.  The  suggestion  of  going  to  Margaret  had 
been  made  on  the  spur  of  the  moment  without  after- 
thought. She  was  now  wedded  to  it,  divining  in  it  a 
hundred  possibilities. 

At  the  same  moment  she  became  more  cautious, 
and  more  ashamed  of  herself.  It  would  be  better 
to  apologize.  But  before  she  could  speak  Elizabeth 
said : 

‘ Does  Desmond  agree  with  what  you  have  been 
saying?  ’ 

Pamela  staring  at  her  adversary  was  a little 
frightened.  She  rushed  into  a falsehood. 

‘ Desmond  Icnows  nothing  about  it ! I don’t  want 
him  dragged  in.’ 

Elizabeth’s  eyes,  with  their  bitter,  wounded  look 
seemed  to  search  the  girl’s  inmost  mind.  Then  she 
moved  away. 

‘ We  had  better  go  to  bed.  We  shall  both  want 
to  think  it  over.  Good-night.’ 

And  from  the  darkness  of  the  hall,  where  fire  and 
lamp  were  dying,  Pamela  half  spell-bound,  w^atched 
the  tall  figure  of  Elizabeth  slowly  miounting  the 
broad  staircase  at  the  further  end,  the  candle-light 
flickering  on  her  bright  hair,  and  on  a bunch  of  snow- 
drops in  her  breast. 

Then,  for  an  hour,  while  the  house  sank  into 
silence,  Pamela  sat  crouched  and  shivering  by  the 
only  log  left  in  the  grate.  ‘ A little  while  ago,’  she 
was  thinking  miserably,  ‘ I had  good  feelings  and 
ideas — I never  hated  anybody.  I never  told  lies. 
I suppose — I shall  get  worse  and  worse.’ 

And  when  she  had  gone  wearily  to  bed,  it  was  to 
cry  herself  to  sleep. 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 


221 


The  following  morning,  an  urgent  telegram  from 
her  younger  sister  recalled  Elizabeth  Bremerton  to 
London,  where  her  mother’s  invalid  condition  had 
suddenly  taken  a disastrous  turn  for  the  worse. 


CHAPTER  XII 


‘TJULLO,  Aubrey!  what  brings  you  here?’ 

words  Arthur  Chicksands,  just 
emerging  from  the  War  Office,  stopped  to 
greet  a brother  officer,  who  was  just  entering  it. 

‘ Nothing  much.  I shan’t  be  long.  Can  you  wait 
a bit?  ’ 

‘ Right  you  are.  I’ve  got  to  leave  a note  at  the 
Ministry  of  Munitions,  but  I’ll  be  back  in  a few  min- 
utes.’ 

Arthur  Chicksands  went  his  way  to  Whitehall 
Gardens,  while  Major  Mannering  disappeared  into 
the  inner  regions  of  that  vast  building  where  dwell 
the  men  on  whom  hang  the  fortunes  of  an  Empire. 
Arthur  walking  fast  up  Whitehall  w'as  very  little 
aware  of  the  scene  about  him.  His  mind  was  occu- 
pied with  the  details  of  the  interview  in  which  he 
had  just  been  engaged.  His  promotion  had  lately 
been  rapid,  and  his  work  of  extraordinary  interest. 
He  had  been  travelling  a great  deal,  backwards 
and  forwards  between  London  and  Versailles, 
charged  with  several  special  enquiries  in  which  he 
had  shown  both  steadiness  and  flair.  Things  were 
known  to  him  that  he  could  not  share  even  with  a 
friend  so  old  and  ‘ safe  ’ as  Aubrey  Mannering.  The 
grip  of  the  coming  crisis  was  upon  him,  and  he 
seemed  ‘ to  carry  the  world  in  his  breast.’ 

‘ Next  year — next  February — where  shall  we  all 
be  ? ’ The  question  was  automatically  suggested  to 
him  by  the  sight  of  the  green  buds  of  the  lilac  trees 
in  front  of  Whitehall  Terrace. 


322 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 


223 

‘ Oh,  my  dear  Susan ! — do  look  at  those  trees ! ’ 

Chicksands,  startled  from  his  own  meditations, 
looked  up  to  see  two  old  ladies  gazing  with  an  eager 
interest  at  a couple  of  plane  trees,  which  had  just 
shed  a profusion  of  bark  and  stood  white  and  almost 
naked  in  the  grey  London  air.  They  were  dear  old 
ladies  from  some  distant  country-side,  with  bonnets 
and  fronts,  and  reticules,  as  though  they  had  just 
walked  out  of  Cranford,  and  after  gazing  with  close 
attention  at  the  plane  trees  near  them  they  turned 
and  looked  at  all  the  other  plane  trees  in  Whitehall, 
which  presented  an  equally  plucked  and  peeled  ap- 
pearance. 

Then  the  one  addressed  as  Susan  laughed  out — a 
happy,  chuckling  laugh. 

‘ Oh,  I see ! My  dear  Ellen,  how  clever  people 
are  now ! They’re  camouflaged- — that’s  what  it  is — 
can’t  you  see? — all  the  way  down,  because  of  the 
raids ! ’ 

The  admiring  fervour  of  the  voice  was  too  much 
for  Chicksands.  He  hurried  past  them,  head  down, 
and  ran  up  the  steps  of  the  Ministry  of  Munitions. 
From  that  point  of  vantage  he  turned,  shaken  with 
amusement,  to  see  the  pair  advancing  slowly  towards 
Westminster,  their  old-fashioned  skirts  floating 
round  them,  still  pointing  eagerly  at  the  barkless 
trees.  Had  they  com.e  from  some  piny  region  where 
the  plane  is  not?  Anyway  the  tension  of  the  day 
was  less. 

He  repeated  the  tale  to  Aubrey  Mannering  a few 
minutes  later,  when  they  had  turned  together  into 
Birdcage  Walk.  But  Aubrey  scarcely  gave  it  the 
ghost  of  a smile.  As  to  his  old  friend’s  enquiries 
about  his  own  work  and  plans,  he  answered  them 
quite  readily,  but  shortly,  without  any  expansion; 


224  ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 

with  the  manner,  indeed,  of  one  for  whom  talk 
about  himself  had  no  sort  of  attraction.  And  as 
they  passed  along  the  front  of  the  barracks,  where 
a few  men  were  drilling,  Chicksands,  struck  by  his 
companion’s  silence,  turned  a sudden  look  upon  him. 
Mannering’s  eyes  were  absently  and  yet  intently 
fixed  on  the  small  squads  of  drilling  men.  And  it 
was  sharply  borne  in  on  Chicksands  that  he  was 
walking  beside  the  mere  image  or  phantom  of  a 
man,  a man  whose  mind  was  far  away — ‘ voyaging 
through  strange  seas  of  thought  alone.’  Manner- 
ing’s eyes  were  wide  open;  but  they  made  the  weird 
impression  on  the  spectator  of  a double  seeing — of 
some  object  of  vision  beyond  and  behind  the  actual 
scene  of  the  barracks  and  the  recruits,  and  that  an 
object  producing  terror  or  pain.  Chicksands  made  a 
remark  and  it  was  not  answered. 

It  was  not  the  first  time  that  Arthur  had  observed 
this  trance-like  state  in  the  man  who  was  to  be  his 
brother-in-law,  and  had  been  his  ‘ chum  ’ from  child- 
hood. Others  had  noticed  it,  and  he  had  reason  to 
think  that  Beryl  was  often  distressed  by  it.  He  had 
never  himself  seen  any  signs  of  strangeness  or  de- 
pression in  Aubrey  before  the  Easter  of  1915,  when 
they  met  in  Paris,  for  the  first  time  after  the  battle 
of  Neuve  Chapelle,  in  which  Mannering  had  lost 
his  dearest  friend,  one  Freddy  Vivian,  of  the  Wor- 
cesters. During  the  winter  they  had  met  fairly 
often  in  the  neighbourhood  of  Ipres,  and  Aubrey 
was  then  the  same  eager,  impulsive  fellow  that  Chick- 
sands had  known  at  Eton  and  Cambridge,  bubbling 
over  with  the  exploits  of  his  battalion,  and  adored 
by  his  own  men.  In  April,  in  a raid  near  Festubert, 
Mannering  was  badly  wounded.  But  the  change  in 
him  was  already  evident  when  they  were  in  Paris 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 


225 


together.  Chicksands  could  only  suppose  It  repre- 
sented the  mental  and  nervous  depression  caused  by 
Vivian’s  death,  and  would  pass  away.  On  the 
contrary,  It  had  proved  to  be  something  perma- 
nent. 

Yet  It  had  never  interfered  with  his  efficiency  as 
a soldier,  nor  his  record  for  a dare-devil  courage. 
There  were  many  tales  current  of  his  exploits  on 
the  Somme,  in  which  again  and  again  he  had  singed 
the  beard  of  Death,  with  an  absolute  recklessness  of 
his  own  personal  life,  combined  with  the  most  anx- 
ious care  for  that  of  his  men.  Since  the  battle  of 
Messines  he  had  been  the  head  of  a remarkable 
Officers’  School  at  Aldershot,  mainly  organized  by 
himself.  But  now,  it  seemed,  he  was  moving  heaven 
and  earth  to  get  back  to  France  and  the  front. 
Chicksands  did  not  think  he  would  achieve  It. 
was  invaluable  where  he  was,  and  his  superiors,  to 
Mannering’s  indignation,  were  inclined  to  regard 
him  as  a man  who  was  physically  fit  rather  for  home 
service  than  the  front. 

When  they  reached  the  Buckingham  Palace  end 
of  the  Walk,  Mannering  paused. 

‘ Where  are  you  lunching?  ’ 

‘ At  Brooks’,  with  my  father.’ 

‘ Oh,  then  I’ll  walk  there  with  you.’ 

They  struck  across  the  park,  and  talk  fell  on  a 
recent  small  set-back  which  had  happened  to  a regi- 
ment with  which  they  were  both  well  acquainted. 

Chicksands  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

‘ I’ve  heard  some  details  at  the  War  Office.  Just 
ten  minutes’  rot!  The  Colonel  stopped  it  with  his 
revolver.  Most  of  them  splendid  fellows.  Two 
young  subs  gave  way  under  a terrific  shelling  and 
their  men  with  them.  And  in  ten  minutes  they  were 


226 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 


all  rushing  forward  again,  straight  through  the  bar- 
rage— and  the  two  lieutenants  were  killed.’ 

‘ My  God ! — lucky  fellows ! ’ cried  Mannering, 
under  his  breath,  with  a passion  and  suddenness 
that  struck  astonishment  into  his  companion. 

‘ Well,  yes,’  said  Arthur,  ‘ in  a sense — but — noth- 
ing would  have  happened  to  them.  They  had  wiped 
it  out.’ 

Mannering  shook  his  head.  Then  with  a great 
and  evident  effort  he  changed  the  conversation. 

‘You  know  Pamela’s  in  town?’ 

‘ Yes,  with  Margaret  Strang.  I’m  going  to  dine 
there  to-night.  How’s  the  new  agent  getting  on?’ 

Aubrey  smiled. 

‘Which? — the  man — or  the  lady?’ 

‘ Miss  Bremerton,  of  course.  I got  a most  inter- 
esting letter  from  her  a fortnight  ago.  Do  you 
know  that  she  herself  has  discovered  nearly  a thou- 
sand ash  in  the  Squire’s  woods,  after  that  old  idiot 
Hull  had  told  her  she  wouldn’t  find  half-a-dozen? 
A thousand  ash  is  not  to  be  sneezed  at  in  these 
days ! I happen  to  know  that  the  Air  Board  v/rote 
the  Squire  a very  civil  letter.’ 

‘ “All  along  of  Eliza ! ” ’ mused  Mannering. 
‘ She’s  been  away  from  Mannering  just  lately.  Her 
invalid  m.other  became  very  seriously  111  about  three 
weeks  ago,  and  she  had  to  go  home  for  a time.  My 
father,  of  course,  has  been  fussing  and  fuming  to 
get  her  back.’ 

‘ Poor  Squire ! But  how  could  Pamela  be  spared 
too?  ’ 

Mannering  hesitated. 

‘ Well,  the  fact  is  she  and  my  father  seem  to  have 
had  a good  old-fashioned  row.  She  tried  to  fill 
'Miss  Bremerton’s  place,  and  of  course  it  didn’t  an- 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 


227 


swer.  She’s  too  young,  and  my  father  too  exacting. 
Then  when  it  broke  down,  and  he  took  things  out 
of  her  hands  again,  comparing  her,  of  course,  enor- 
mously to  her  disadvantage  with  Miss  Bremerton, 
Pamela  lost  her  temper  and  said  foolish  things  of 
Miss  Bremerton.  Whereupon  fury  on  my  father’s 
part — and  sudden  departure  on  Pamela’s.  She  actu- 
ally bicycled  off  to  the  railway  station,  sent  a tele- 
gram for  her  things,  and  came  up  to  Margaret. 
Alice  Gaddesden  is  looking  after  father.  But  of 
course  he  and  she  don’t  get  on  a bit.’ 

The  Captain  looked  much  concerned. 

‘ It’s  a pity  Pamela  takes  that  line — don’t  you 
think?  I really  don’t  see  the  conspirator  in  Miss 
Bremerton.  I hoped  when  I saw  her  first  she 
would  make  just  all  the  difference  to  Pamela.’ 

‘ Yes,  it’s  puzzling.  I ran  down  to  see  my  father, 
who  was  in  a rabid  state  of  mind,  not  knowing  what 
to  do  with  all  the  schemes  and  business  this  clever 
woman  started — perfectly  lost  without  her.’ 

‘ Ah,  that’s  the  worst  of  your  Indispensable ! ’ 
laughed  Chicksands. 

Mannering  threw  him  a quick,  scrutinizing  look. 
Various  items  of  information  picked  up  at  Manner- 
ing, mostly  from  his  sister  Alice,  had  made  him 
wonder  whether  some  jealousy  of  a more  vital  and 
intimate  kind  than  appeared  might  not  be  at  the 
root  of  Pamela’s  behaviour.  He  was  not  observant,^ 
at  this  period  of  his  life,  except  of  things  relating 
to  his  engagement  to  Beryl,  his  work,  or  those  inner 
pre-occupations  which  held  him.  But  it  had  once 
or  twice  crossed  his  mind  that  Pamela  might  be  in- 
terested in  Arthur;  and  there  had  been  certain  hints 
from  Beryl,  who  was,  however,  he  was  certain, 
scarcely  better  informed  than  he  was.  Pamela  was 


228 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 


a most  secretive  and  Independent  young  woman.  He 
doubted  whether  even  Desmond,  whom  she  adored, 
knew  much  about  her. 

Well,  supposing  she  was  jealous — jealous  of  her 
father’s  secretary,  and  on  account  of  Arthur,  was 
there  the  smallest  cause  for  it?  He  understood 
that  Arthur  and  Miss  Bremerton  had  met  occa- 
sionally, and  he  had  himself  heard  Chicksands  ex- 
press the  warmest  admiration  for  her  as  the  right 
sort  of  new  woman,  ‘ as  straight  as  you  make  ’em  ’ — 
and  with  ‘ a brain  like  a man  ’ — which,  from  one 
who  was  always  rather  a critical  spectator  than  a 
courtier  of  women,  was  high  praise.  But  as  for  any 
spark  of  sex  In  It — Mannering  laughed  at  the  no- 
tion. No.  If  that  really  was  Pamela’s  delusion, 
something  must  be  done  to  rid  his  little  sister  of  it 
If  possible.  He  would  talk  to  Beryl. 

But — as  always  when  any  new  responsibility  pre- 
sented Itself  to  him — a deep  Inner  weariness  re- 
belled. In  small  things  as  in  great,  he  was  mentally 
like  a man  walking  and  working  with  a broken  limb. 

Arthur  Chicksands  stood  some  time  that  evening 
waiting  on  the  doorstep  of  Mrs.  Strang’s  small 
house,  in  one  of  the  old  streets  of  Westminster.  ‘ No 
servants,  I suppose,’  he  said  to  himself  with  resig- 
nation. But  it  was  bitterly  cold,  and  he  was  relieved 
to  hear  at  last  the  sound  of  a voice  and  a girl’s 
laugh  inside.  Pamela  opened  the  door  to  him, 
pulling  down  the  sleeves  of  a thin  black  dress  over 
her  shapely  arms. 

‘ Oh,  come  in.  Margaret’s  cooking  the  dinner, 
and  I’ve  laid  the  table.  Bernard’s  just  bringing  up 
some  coals,  and  then  we’re  ready.’ 

Mr,  Bernard  Strang,  a distinguished  Home  Office 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 


229 


official,  appeared  at  that  moment  In  his  shirt-sleeves 
at  the  head  of  the  kitchen  stairs,  bearing  a scuttle 
of  coal  in  each  hand. 

‘Gracious!  Give  me  one  of  them!’  said  the 
Captain,  hurrying  to  the  rescue. 

But  Mr.  Strang,  putting  down  the  right-hand 
scuttle,  to  take  breath,  warned  him  ofF. 

‘ Thank  you,  Chicksands — but  no  brass  hats  need 
apply!  Many  thanks — but  you’re  too  smart!  ’ He 
pointed,  panting,  to  the  red  tabs  and  to  the  bit  of 
variegated  ribbon  on  Chicksands’  broad  chest.  ‘ Go 
and  help  Pamela  bring  in  the  dinner.’ 

The  Captain  obeyed  with  alacrity. 

‘ All  the  servants  left  on  Monday,’  said  Pamela. 
‘ We  had  a charwoman  this  morning,  but  she’s  gone 
to-night,  because  there’s  a new  moon.’ 

‘What— raids?  ’ 

Pamela  nodded  as  she  gave  him  the  soup,  with 
Instructions  to  carry  it  carefully  and  put  it  by  the 
fire.  She  seemed  to  be  in  her  gayest  mood,  and 
Chicksands’  eyes  followed  her  perpetually  as  she 
went  backwards  and  forwards  on  her  household 
tasks.  Presently  Mrs.  Strang  appeared,  crimson 
from  the  fire,  bearing  the  fishpie  and  vegetables  that 
were  to  provide  the  rationed  meal. 

‘ To  think,’  said  Mr.  Strang,  when  they  were  at 
last  at  table,  ‘ that  there  was  a time  when  we  were 
proud  of  our  “ little  dinners,”  and  that  I never  made 
myself  unpleasant  unless  Margaret  spent  more  than 
five  pounds  on  the  food  alone.  Shall  I ever  eat  a 
good  dinner  again?’ 

He  looked  wistfully  at  the  bare  table. 

‘ Will  you  ever  want  to  ? ’ said  Arthur,  quietly. 

A momentary  silence  fell  upon  the  little  party. 
Bernard  Strang  had  lost  two  brothers  in  the  war, 


230 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 


and  Chicksands  had  no  sooner  spoken  than  he  re- 
proached himself  for  a tactless  brute.  But,  sud- 
denly, the  bells  of  the  Abbey  rang;  out  above  their 
heads,  playing  with  every  stroke  on  the  nerves  of 
the  listeners.  For  the  voice  of  England  was  in 
them,  speaking  to  that  under-consciousness  which  the 
war  has  developed  in  us  all. 

‘Any  news?’  said  Strang,  looking  at  Arthur. 

‘ No.  The  Eastern  business  gets  a little  worse 
every  day.’ 

‘ And  the  “ Offensive  ”?  ’ 

‘ Let  them ! Our  men  want  nothing  better.’ 

On  which  the  dinner  resolved  itself  into  a device 
for  making  the  Captain  talk.  The  War  Office  crisis, 
the  men  gathered  In  conclave  at  Versailles,  and  that 
perpetual  friction  between  the  politician  and  the  sol- 
dier, which  every  war,  big  or  little,  brings  to  the 
front,  and  which  will  only  end  when  war  ends — 
those  were  the  topics  of  It,  with  other  talk  such  as 
women  like  to  listen  to  of  m.en  about  individual 
men,  shrewd,  careless,  critical,  strangely  damning 
here,  strangely  Indulgent  there,  constant  only  in  one 
quality — that  it  is  the  talk  of  men  and  even  if  one 
heard  It  behind  a curtain  and  strained  through  dis- 
tance, could  never  by  any  chance  be  mistaken  for  the 
talk  of  women. 

At  intervals  Pamela  got  up  to  change  the  plates 
and  the  dishes,  quieting  with  a peremptory  gesture 
the  tv/o  males,  who  would  spring  to  their  feet. 
‘Haven’t  I done  parlour-work  for  six  months? — 
no  amateurs,  please ! ’ And  again,  even  while  he 
talked  on,  Arthur’s  eyes  would  stray  after  the  young 
full  figure,  the  white  neck  and  throat,  the  head  with 
the  soft  hair  folded  close  around  it  in  wavy  bands 
that  followed  all  its  lines — as  it  might  have  been 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 


231 

the  head  of  one  of  those  terra-cottas  that  her  father 
had  stolen  from  the  Greek  tombs  in  his  youth. 

But  unfortunately,  after  dinner,  in  a corner  of  the 
dark  drawing-room,  he  must  needs  try  and  play  the 
schoolmaster  a little,  for  her  good  of  course;  and 
then  all  went  to  pieces. 

‘ I hear  you  ran  away ! ’ 

The  voice  that  threw  out  this  sudden  challenge 
was  half  ironical,  half  affectionate;  the  grey  eyes 
under  their  strong  black  brows  looked  at  her  with 
amusement. 

Pamela  flushed  at  once. 

‘Aubrey  told  you,  I suppose?  What  was  the 
good  of  staying?  I couldn’t  do  anything  right.  I 
was  only  making  things  worse.’ 

‘I  can  hardly  believe  that!  Couldn’t  you  just 
have  kept  Miss  Bremerton’s  work  going  till  she 
came  back?’ 

‘ I tried,’  said  Pamela  stiffly,  ‘ and  it  didn’t  do.’ 

‘ Perhaps  she  attempts  too  much.  But  she 
seemed  to  me  to  be  very  sensible  and  human.  And 
— did  you  hear  about  the  ash  trees?  ’ 

‘ No,’  said  Pamela  shortly,  her  foot  nervously 
beating  the  ground.  ‘ It  doesn’t  matter.  Of  course 
I know  she’s  the  cleverest  person  going.  But  I can’t 
get  on  with  her — that’s  all  I I’m  going  to  take  up 
nursing — properly.  I’m  making  enquiries  about  the 
London  Hospital.  I want  to  be  a real  Army  nurse.’ 

‘Will  your  father  consent?’ 

‘ Fathers  can’t  stop  their  daughters  from  doing 
things — as  they  used  to  do ! ’ said  Pamela,  with  her 
chin  in  the  air. 

She  had  moved  away  from  him;  her  soft  gaiety 
had  disappeared;  he  felt  her  all  thorns.  Yet  some 
perversity  made  him  try  to  argue  with  her.  The 


232  ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGi^ 

war — pray  the  Lord! — might  be  over  before  her 
training  as  an  Army  nurse  was  half  done.  Mean- 
while, her  V.A.D.  v/ork  at  Mannering  was  just  what 
was  wanted  at  the  moment  from  girls  of  her  age — 
hadn’t  she  seen  the  appeals  for  V.A.D.’s?  And  also, 
if  by  anything  she  did  at  home — or  set  others  free 
for  doing — she  could  help  Captain  Dell  and  Miss 
Bremerton  to  pull  the  estate  round,  and  get  the 
maximum  amount  of  food  out  of  it,  she  would 
be  serving  the  country  in  the  best  way  pos- 
sible. 

‘The  last  ounce  of  food,  mind! — that’s  what  it 
depends  on,’  he  said,  smiling  at  her,  ‘ which  can  stick 
it  longest — they  or  we.  You  belong  to  the  land — 
ought  you  desert  it?  ’ 

Pamela  sat  unmoved.  She  knew  nothing  about 
the  land.  Her  father  had  the  new  agent — and  Miss 
Bremerton. 

‘ Your  sister  there,’  said  Chicksands,  nodding 
towards  the  front  drawing-room,  where  Strang  and 
his  wife  were  sitting  Darby  and  Joan  over  the  fire 
discussing  rations  and  food  prices,  ‘ thinks  Miss 
Bremerton  already  overdone.’ 

‘ I never  saw  the  least  sign  of  it!  ’ 

‘ But  think ! — your  father  never  slackens  his  Greek 
work — and  there  is  all  the  rest.’ 

‘ I suppose  if  it’s  too  much  for  her  she’ll  give  it 
up,’  said  Pamela  in  her  most  obstinate  voice. 

But  even  then  a normally  tactful  man  still  held  on. 

Never  was  anything  more  maladroit.  It  was  the 
stupidity  of  a clever  fellow,  deluding  himself  with 
the  notion  that  having  refused  the  role  of  lover,  he 
could  at  least  play  that  of  guardian  and  adviser; 
whose  conscience,  moreover,  was  so  absolutely  clear 
on  the  subject  of  Elizabeth  Bremerton  that  he  did 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 


233 

not  even  begin  to  suspect  what  was  rankling  in  the 
girl’s  morbid  sense. 

The  relation  between  them  accordingly  went  from 
bad  to  worse;  and  when  Pamela  rose  and  sharply 
put  an  end  to  their  private  conversation,  the  evening 
would  have  practically  ended  in  a quarrel  but  for 
some  final  saving  instinct  on  Chicksands’  part,  which 
made  him  mention  Desmond  as  he  bade  her  good- 
night. 

‘ I could  tell  you  where  he  is,’  he  said  gravely. 
‘ Only  I mustn’t.  I had  a note  from  him  yesterday — ■ 
the  dear  old  boy!  He  wrote  in  the  highest  spirits. 
His  colonel  was  “ ripping,”  and  his  men,  of  course, 
the  best  in  the  whole  battery.’ 

‘ If  you  get  any  news — ever — ^before  we  do,’  said 
Pamela,  suddenly  choking,  ‘ you’ll  tell  us  at  once  ? ’ 

‘ Trust  me.  He’s  never  out  of  my  mind.’ 

On  that  her  good-night  was  less  cold  than  it  would 
have  been  five  minutes  before.  But  he  walked  home 
through  the  moonlit  streets  both  puzzled  and  dis- 
tressed— till  he  reached  his  club  in  Pall  Mall,  where 
the  news  coming  through  on  the  tape  quickly  drove 
everything  out  of  his  soldier’s  mind  but  the  war. 

Mrs.  Gaddesden  was  sitting  as  usual  in  the  hall 
at  Mannering.  A mild  February  was  nearly  out. 
It  would  be  the  first  of  March  on  the  morrow. 

Every  moment  she  expected  to  hear  the  Fallerton 
taxi  draw  up  at  the  front  door — bringing  Elizabeth 
Bremerton  back  to  Mannering.  She  had  been  away 
more  than  a month.  Mrs.  Gaddesden  went  back  in 
thought  to  the  morning  when  it  had  been  announced 
to  the  Squire  by  his  pale  and  anxious  secretary  that 
she  had  had  bad  news  of  her  invalid  mother,  and 
must  go  home  at  once.  The  Squire — his  daughter 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 


234 

could  not  deny  it — had  behaved  abominably.  But  of 
all  of  his  fume  and  fret,  his  unreasonable  complaints 
and  selfish  attempts  to  make  her  fix  the  very  day 
and  hour  of  her  return,  Elizabeth  had  taken  no 
notice.  Go  she  would,  at  once ; and  she  would  make 
no  promises  as  to  the  exact  date  of  her  return.  But 
on  the  morning  before  she  went  she  had  worked 
superhumanly  to  put  things  in  order,  whether  for 
her  typist,  or  Captain  Dell,  or  Pamela,  who  must 
at  least  take  over  the  housekeeping.  The  relations 
between  her  and  Miss  Bremerton  that  morning  had 
struck  Mrs.  Gaddesden  as  odd — certainly  not  cor- 
dial. But  there  was  nothing  to  complain  of  in 
Pamela’s  conduct.  She  would  do  her  best,  she  said, 
and  sat  listening  while  Elizabeth  gave  her  instruc- 
tions about  food  cards,  and  servants,  and  the  rest. 

Then,  when  the  taxi  had  driven  away  with  the 
Dictator,  what  temper  on  the  Squire’s  part!  Mrs. 
Gaddesden  had  very  nearly  gone  home  to  London — 
but  for  the  fact  of  raids,  and  the  fact  that  two 
of  her  most  necessary  servants  had  joined  the 
W.A.A.C.’s.  Pamela,  on  the  other  hand,  had  gone 
singing  about  the  house.  And  really  the  child  had 
done  her  best.  But  how  could  any  one  expect  her 
to  manage  her  father  and  the  house,  especially  on 
the  scraps  of  time  left  her  by  her  V.A.D.  work?  The 
Squire  had  been  like  a fractious  child  over  the  com.- 
pulsory  rations.  Nobody  was  less  of  a glutton — he 
pecked  like  a bird;  but  the  proper  food  to  peck  at 
must  be  always  there,  or  his  temper  was  unbearable. 
Pamela  made  various  blunders;  the  household  knew 
hunger  for  the  first  time ; and  the  servants  began  to 
give  warning.  Captain  Dell  could  do  nothing  with 
his  employer,  and  the  timber  business  was  hung  up. 

Then  came  Pamela’s  outbreak  after  a tirade  from 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 


235 


the  Squire  bitterly  contrasting  his  lost  secretary’s 
performances,  in  every  particular,  with  those  of  his 
daughter.  The  child  had  disappeared,  and  a mes- 
sage from  the  station  v/as  all  that  remained  of  her. 
Well,  who  could  wonder?  Mrs.  Gaddesden  re- 
flected, with  some  complacency,  that  even  she  had 
spoken  her  mind  to  her  father  that  night,  conven- 
iently forgetting  some  annoying  retorts  of  his  about 
herself,  and  the  custom  she  had  developed  of  sitting 
for  hours  over  the  fire  pretending  to  knit,  but  really 
doing  nothing.  After  her  enormous  exertions  in 
the  cause  of  the  war — she  was  accustomed  to  say — 
of  the  year  before,  she  was  in  need  of  a rest.  She 
was  certainly  taking  it.  Since  Pamela  left,  indeed, 
she  had  been  obliged  to  do  the  housekeeping,  and 
considered  it  very  hard  work.  She  had  never  yet 
been  able  to  calculate  the  food  coupons  correctly. 

So  she,  like  all  the  rest,  was  looking  eagerly  for 
Elizabeth. 

Yes! — that  was  the  cracked  horn  of  the  village 
taxi.  Mrs.  Gaddesden  poked  the  fire  with  energy 
and  rang  for  Forest.  But  his  quick  ears  had  heard 
the  signal  before  hers,  and  he  was  already  hurrying 
through  the  hall  to  the  front  door. 

And  there  was  the  library  door  opening,  so  her 
father  too  had  been  on  the  watch.  Voices  in  the 
vestibule,  and  as  the  outer  door  of  the  hall  opened, 
the  Squire  appeared  at  the  further  end.  Alice  Gad- 
desden had  an  odd  feeling  that  something  important 
— decisive — was  going  to  happen. 

Yet  nothing  could  have  been  more  unassuming 
than  Elizabeth’s  entry.  It  was  evident,  indeed,  that 
Forest  was  overjoyed  to  see  her.  He  shouldered 
her  modest  boxes  and  bags  with  a will,  and  a house- 
maid, all  smiles,  came  running  half  way  downstairs 


236  ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 

to  take  some  of  his  burden  from  him.  Elizabeth 
followed  the  butler  and  took  Mrs.  Gaddesden’s 
hand. 

‘ My  train  was  late.  I hope  you’ve  not  waited 
tea?  ’ 

‘ Why,  of  course  we  have,’  said  the  Squire’s  voice. 
‘Forest! — tea  at  once.’ 

Elizabeth,  not  having  perceived  his  approach  in 
the  dimness  of  the  February  twilight,  turned  with 
a start  to  greet  the  Squire.  He  looked,  to  her  eyes, 
lankier  and  thinner  and  queerer  than  ever.  But  it 
was  a distinguished  queerness.  Elizabeth  had  for- 
gotten that  the  brow  and  eyes  were  so  fine,  and  the 
hair  so  glistening  white.  The  large  nose  and  small 
captious  chin  passed  unnoticed.  She  was  astonished 
at  her  own  throb  of  pleasure  in  seeing  her  employer 
again. 

His  pleasure  was  boisterously  evident,  though 
presently  he  showed  it  in  his  usual  way  by  attacking 
her.  But  first  Mrs.  Gaddesden  made  the  proper 
enquiries  after  Elizabeth’s  invalid  mother. 

Elizabeth,  looking  extremely  tired  as  she  sat  by 
the  fire,  in  the  chair  which  the  Squire — most  un- 
wonted attention ! — had  drawn  up  for  her,  said  that 
her  mother  was  better,  and  volunteered  nothing  fur- 
ther. The  Squire,  meanwhile,  had  observed  her 
looks,  and  was  chafing  inwardly  against  invalid  re- 
lations who  made  unjust  claims  upon  their  kith  and 
kin  and  monstrously  insisted  on  being  nursed  by 
them.  But  he  had  the  sense  to  hold  his  tongue, 
and  even  to  profess  a decent  sympathy. 

Then,  without  any  further  preamble,  he  plunged 
Into  his  own  affairs. 

‘ Everything’s  gone  to  rack  and  ruin  since  you  left,’ 
he  said  vehemently.  ‘ Of  course  you  knew  it  would  1 ’ 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 


237 


Elizabeth’s  eyebrov/s  lifted.  The  look,  half  tol- 
erant, half  amused,  with  which  she  greeted  sallies 
of  this  kind  was  one  of  her  attractions  for  the  Squire. 

‘ What’s  Captain  Dell  been  doing?  ’ she  inquired. 

‘ Marking  time ! ’ was  the  testy  reply.  ‘ He’s 
been  no  good  by  himself — I knew  he  wouldn’t  be — 
no  more  use  than  old  Hull.’ 

Elizabeth’s  expression  showed  her  sceptical. 

‘And  the  timber?’ 

‘ Just  where  you  left  It.  The  rascally  fellows 
want  all  sorts  of  conditions.  You  may  accept  them 
if  you  like — I won’t.  But  I told  them  we’d  meet 
them  in  the  woods  to-morrow — you,  and  Dell  and  I. 
And  Chicksands,  who  likes  poking  his  nose  into 
everything,  is  coming  too.’ 

‘Sir  Henry?’  asked  Elizabeth  in  astonishment. 

‘ Well,  I thought  you  might  like  the  old  boy’s 
opinion,  so  I rang  him  up  on  that  horrid  thing 
you’ve  put  Into  the  office.  I don’t  care  about  his 
opinion  In  the  least!  ’ 

A treat  arranged  for  her  return!  Elizabeth  felt 
as  if  she  were  being  offered  Sir  Henry’s  head  on  a 
charger. 

‘ That  will  be  a great  help ! ’ she  said  with  rather 
artificial  enthusiasm,  at  which  the  Squire  only 
shrugged  his  shoulders.  ‘ Has  Sir  Henry  been  over 
here ’ 

‘ While  you’ve  been  away?  Nothing  of  the  sort. 
He’s  not  crossed  the  threshold  since  I turned  him 
out  six  months  ago.  But  he’s  coming  all  the  same — 
as  mild  as  milk.’ 

‘Very  good  of  him!  ’ said  Elizabeth  w4th  spirit. 

‘ That’s  as  you  choose  to  look  at  It.  And  as  to 
everything  else ’ 

‘The  catalogue?’ 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 


238 

‘ Gone  to  the  crows ! ’ said  the  Squire  gloomily. 

‘ Levasseur  took  some  references  to  look  out  last 
week,  and  made  tv/enty  mistakes  in  as  many  lines. 
He’s  off!  ’ 

Elizabeth  removed  her  hat  and  pressed  her  hands 
to  her  eyes,  half  laughing,  half  aghast.  Never  had 
anything  been  more  welcome  to  the  Squire  than  the 
sheen  of  her  hair  in  the  semi-darkness.  Mrs.  Gad- 
desden  had  once  annoyed  him  by  calling  it  red. 

‘ And  the  farms?  ’ 

‘ Oh,  that  I leave  you  to  find  out.  I shovelled  all 
the  letters  on  to  your  table,  just  as  Pamela  left  them.’ 

‘ Pamela  ! ’ said  Elizabeth,  looking  up.  ‘ But 
where  is  she?  ’ 

The  Squire  held  his  peace.  Mrs.  Gaddesden  drily 
observed  that  she  was  staying  with  Mrs.  Strang  in 
tov/n.  A bright  colour  spread  in  Elizabeth’s  cheeks 
and  she  fell  silent,  staring  into  the  fire. 

‘Hadn’t  you  better  take  your  things  off?’  said 
Mrs.  Gaddesden. 

Elizabeth  rose.  As  she  passed  the  Squire,  he  said 
gruffly: 

‘ Of  course  you’re  not  ready  for  any  Greek  be- 
fore dinner?’ 

She  smiled.  ‘ But  of  course  I am.  I’ll  be  down 
directly.’ 

In  a few  more  minutes  she  was  standing  alone  in 
her  room.  The  housemaid,  of  her  own  accord,  had 
lit  a fire,  and  had  gathered  some  snowdrops  for  the 
dressing  table.  Elizabeth’s  bags  had  been  already 
unpacked,  and  all  her  small  possessions  had  been 
arranged  just  as  she  liked  them. 

‘ They  spoil  me,’  she  thought,  half  pleased,  half 
shrinking.  ‘ But  why  am  I here  ? Why  have  I come 
back?  And  what  do  I mean  to  do?’ 


CHAPTER  XIII 


These  questions— ‘ why  did  I come  back? — 
What  am  I going  to  do  ? ’ were  still  ringing 
through  Elizabeth’s  mind  when,  on  the  eve- 
ning of  her  return,  she  entered  the  library  to  find  the 
Squire  eagerly  waiting  for  her. 

But  the  spectacle  presented  by  the  room  quickly 
drove  out  other  matters.  She  stood  aghast  at  the 
disorder  which  three  weeks  of  the  Squire’s  man- 
agement had  brought  about.  Books  on  the  floor 
and  piled  on  the  chairs — a dusty  confusion  of 
papers  everywhere— drawers  open  and  untid}^ — • 
her  reign  of  law  seemed  to  have  been  wiped  out. 

‘ Oh,  what  a dreadful  muddle  ! ’ 

The  Squire  looked  about  him- — abashed. 

‘ Yes,  it’s  awful — it’s  all  that  fellow  Levasseur. 
I ought  to  have  turned  him  out  sooner.  He’s  the 
most  helpless,  incompetent  idiot.  But  it  won’t  take 
you  very  long  to  get  straight?  I’ll  do  anything  you 
tell  me.’ 

He  watched  her  face  appealingly,  like  a boy  in 
a scrape.  Elizabeth  shook  her  head. 

‘ It’ll  take  me  a full  day.  But  never  mind ; we 
need  not  begin  to-night.’ 

‘No,  we  won’t  begin  to-night!’  said  the  Squire 
emphatically.  ‘ There  ! — I’ve  found  a chair  for  you. 
Is  that  fire  as  you  like  it?  ’ 

What  astonishing  amiability!  The  attack  of 
nerves  which  had  assailed  Elizabeth  upstairs  began 
to  disappear.  She  took  the  chair  the  Squire  offered 

239 


240 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 


her,  cleared  a small  table,  and  produced  from  the 
despatch-box  she  had  brought  into  the  room  mith  her 
a writing-block  and  a fountain-pen. 

‘ Do  you  want  to  dictate  anything?  ’ 

‘Not  at  all!  ’ said  the  Squire.  ‘ I’ve  got  nothing 
ready  for  dictating.  The  work  I have  done  during 
your  absence  I shall  probably  tear  up.’ 

‘ But  I thought ’ 

‘ Well,  I daresay — but  can’t  a man  change  his 
mind?  Greek  be  hanged!  ’ thundered  the  impatient 
voice.  ‘ I v/ant  some  conversation  with  you — if  you 
will  allow  me  ? ’ 

The  last  words  slipped  awkwardly  into  another 
note.  It  was  as  though  a man  should  exchange  the 
trombone  for  the  flute.  Elizabeth  held  her  peace; 
but  her  pulse  was  beginning  to  quicken. 

‘ The  fact  is,’  said  the  Squire,  ‘ I have  been  think- 
ing over  a good  many  things — in  the  last  hour.’ 
Then  he  turned  upon  her  abruptly.  ‘ What  was  that 
you  were  saying  to  Alice  in  the  hall  just  now,  about 
moving  your  mother  into  better  rooms?’ 

Elizabeth’s  parted  lips  showed  her  surprise. 

‘ We  do  want  better  rooms  for  her,’  she  said  hesi- 
tatingly, after  a moment.  ‘ My  sister  Joan,  who  is 
at  fiome  just  now,  is  looking  out.  But  they  are  not 
easy  to  find.’ 

‘ Don’t  look  out ! ’ said  the  Squire  impetuously. 
‘ I have  a better  plan  to  propose  to  you.  In  these 
horrible  days  people  must  co-operate  and  combine. 
I know  many  instances  of  families  sharing  a house — 
and  servants.  Beastly,  I admit,  in  the  case  of  a 
small  house.  One  runs  up  against  people — and  then 
one  hates  them.  I do ! But  in  the  case  of  a large 
house  it  is  different.  Now,  what  do  you  say  to  this? 
Bring  your  mother  here ! ’ 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 


241 


* Bring — my  mother — here  ? ’ repeated  Elizabeth 
stupidly.  ‘ I don’t  understand.’ 

‘ It’s  very  simple.’  The  Squire  stood  over  her, 
his  thumbs  in  his  waistcoat  pockets,  his  eyes  all 
vivacity.  ‘ This  is  a big  house — an  old  barn,  if 
you  like,  but  big  enough.  Your  mother  might  have 
the  whole  of  the  east  wing — which  looks  south — if 
she  pleased;  and  neither  she  nor  I need  ever  come 
in  each  other’s  way,  any  more  than  people  who 
have  flats  in  the  same  building.  I heard  you  say 
she  had  a nurse.  Well,  there  would  be  the  nurse — 
and  another  servant  perhaps.  And  the  housekeep- 
ing could  be  in  common.  Now  do  consider  it.  Be 
reasonable ! Don’t  mock  at  it,  because  it  isn’t  your 
own  plan,’  said  the  Squire  severely,  perceiving  the 
smile,  which  she  could  not  repress,  spreading  over 
Elizabeth’s  countenance. 

‘ It’s  awfully  good  of  you!  ’ she  began  warmly — 
‘ but ’ 

‘ But  what?  ’ 

Then  Elizabeth’s  smile  vanished,  and  instead  he 
saw  a dimness  in  the  clear  blue  eyes. 

‘ My  poor  little  mother  is  too  ill — much  too  ill-—  ’ 
she  said  in  a low  voice.  ‘ She  may  live  a good  while 
yet;  but  her  mind  is  no  longer  clear.’ 

The  Squire  was  checked.  This  possible  aspect  of 
the  case  had  not  occurred  to  him.  But  he  was  not 
to  be  defeated. 

‘ If  you  can  move  her  from  one  house  to  another, 
surely  you  could  move  her  here — in  an  invalid  mo- 
tor? It  would  only  take  an  hour  and  a half.’ 

Elizabeth  shook  her  head  quietly,  but  decidedly. 

‘ Thank  you,  but  I am  afraid  it  is  impossible.  She 
couldn’t  take  the  journey,  and — no,  indeed,  it  is  out 
of  the  question ! ’ 


242 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 


‘Will  you  ask  your  doctor?’  said  the  Squire 
obstinately. 

‘ I know  what  he  would  say.  Please  don’t  think 
of  it,  Mr.  Mannering.  It’s  very,  very  good  of  you.’ 

‘ It’s  not  the  least  good,’  said  the  Squire  roughly. 
‘ It’s  sheer,  naked  self-interest.  If  you’re  not  at  ease 
about  your  mother,  you’ll  be  throwing  up  your  work 
here  again  some  day,  for  good,  and  that’ll  be  death 
and  damnation ! ’ 

He  turned  frowning  away,  and  threw  himself  into 
a chair  by  the  fire. 

So  the  murder  was  out.  Elizabeth  must  needs 
laugh.  But  this  clumsy  way  of  showing  her  that 
she  was  indispensable  not  only  touched  her  feeling, 
but  roused  up  the  swarm  of  perplexities  which  had 
buzzed  around  her  ever  since  her  summons  to  her 
mother’s  bedside  on  the  morning  after  her  scene 
with  Pamela.  And  again  she  asked  herself,  ‘ Why 
did  I come  back?  And  what  am  I going  to  do?’ 

She  looked  in  doubt  at  the  fuming  gentleman  by 
the  fire,  and  suddenly  conscience  bade  her  be  frank. 

‘ I would  like  to  stay  here,  Mr.  Mannering,  and 
go  on  with  my  work.  I have  told  you  so  before. 
I will  stay — as  long  as  I can.  But  I mustn’t  burn 
my  boats.  I mustn’t  stay  indefinitely.  I have  come 
to  see  that  would  not  be  fair ’ 

‘To  whom?’  cried  the  Squire,  raising  him.self — 
‘ to  whom  ? ’ 

‘To  Pamela,’  said  Elizabeth  firmly. 

‘ Pamela ! ’ The  Squire  leapt  from  his  seat. 
‘What  on  earth  has  Pamela  got  to  do  with  it!  ’ 

‘ A very  great  deal.  She  is  the  natural  head  of 
your  house,  and  it  would  be  very  difficult  for  me 
to  go  on  living  here — after — perhaps — I have  just 
put  a few  things  straight  for  you,  and  catalogued 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 


243 


the  pots — without  getting  in  her  way,  and  infringing 
her  rights  1 ’ 

Elizabeth  was  sitting  very  erect  and  bright-eyed. 
It  seemed  to  her  that  some  subliminal  self  for  which 
she  was  hardly  responsible  had  suddenly  got  the 
better  of  a hair-splitting  casuistical  self,  which  had 
lately  been  in  command  of  her,  and  that  the  sub- 
liminal self  had  spoken  words  of  truth  and  sober- 
ness. I 

But  instead  of  storming,  the  Squire  laughed  con- 
temptuously. 

‘Pamela’s  rights?  Well,  I’ll  discuss  them  when 
she  remembers  her  duties ! I rem.onstrated  with 
her  one  morning  when  the  servants  were  all  giving 
warning — and  there  was  nothing  to  eat — and  she  had 
made  a hideous  mess  of  some  instructions  of  mine 
about  a letter  to  the  County  Council- — and  I pointed 
out  to  her  that  none  of  these  things  would  have 
happened  if  you  had  been  here.’ 

‘ Oh,  poor  Pamela ! ’ exclaimed  Elizabeth — ‘ but 
still  more,  poor  me ! ’ 

‘ “ Poor  me  ” ? ’ said  the  Squire.  ‘ What  does 
that  mean  ? ’ 

‘You  see,  I have  a weakness  for  being  liked!’ 
said  Elizabeth  after  a moment.  ‘ And  how  can 
Pamela  like  anybody  that  is  being  thrown  at  her 
head  like  that?’  She  looked  at  her  companion  re- 
proachfully. But  the  Squire  was  not  to  be  put 
down. 

‘ Besides,’  he  continued,  without  noticing  her  in- 
terruption, ‘ Pamela  writes  to  me  this  morning  that 
she  wants  my  consent  to  her  training  as  an  Army 
nurse.’ 

‘ Oh  no,’  cried  Elizabeth — ‘ not  yet.  She  is  too 
young! ’ 


244 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 


Her  face  showed  her  distress.  So  she  -was  really 
driving  this  poor  child,  whom  she  would  so  easily 
have  loved  had  it  been  allowed  her,  out  of  her  home  ! 
No  doubt  Pamela  had  seized  on  the  pretext  of  her 
‘ row  ’ with  her  father  to  carry  out  her  threat  to 
Elizabeth  of  ‘ running  away,’  and  before  Eliza- 
beth’s return  to  Mannering,  so  that  neither  the 
Squire  nor  any  one  else  should  guess  at  the  real 
reason.  But  how  could  Elizabeth  acquiesce? 

Yet  if  she  revealed  the  story  of  Pamela’s  attack 
upon  her  to  the  Squire,  what  would  happen?  Only 
a widening  of  the  breach  between  him  and  his 
daughter.  Elizabeth,  of  course,  might  depart,  but 
Pamela  would  be  none  the  more  likely  to  return  to 
face  her  father’s  wrath.  And  again  for  the  hun- 
dredth time  Elizabeth  said  to  herself,  in  mingled 
pain  and  exasperation — ‘What  did  she  mean? — 
and  what  have  I ever  done  that  she  should  behave 
so  ? ’ 

Then  she  raised  her  eyes.  Something  impelled 
her — as  it  were  a strong  telepathic  influence.  The 
Squire  was  gazing  at  her.  His  expression  was  ex- 
traordinarily animated.  It  seemed  to  her  that  words 
were  already  on  his  lips,  and  that  at  all  costs  she 
must  stop  them  there. 

But  fortune  favoured  her.  There  was  a knock 
at  the  library  door.  The  Squire  irritably  said,  ‘ Come 
in!’  and  Forest  announced,  ‘Captain  Dell.’  The 
Squire,  with  some  muttered  remark,  walked  across 
to  his  own  table. 

The  agent  entered  with  a beaming  countenance. 
All  that  he  knew  was  that  the  only  competent  per- 
son in  a rather  crazy  household  had  returned  to  it, 
and  that  business  was  now  likely  to  go  forward. 
He  had  brought  some  important  letters,  and  he  laid 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 


245 


them  nominally  before  his  employer,  but  really  be- 
fore Elizabeth.  He  and  she  talked;  the  Squire 
smoked  and  listened,  morosely  aloof.  Yet  by  the 
end  of  the  agent’s  visit  a grudging  but  definite  con- 
sent had  been  given  to  the  great  timber  deal;  and 
Elizabeth  hurried  off  as  Captain  Dell  departed — 
thankful  for  the  distant  sound  of  the  first  bell  for 
dinner. 

Sitting  up  in  bed  that  night,  with  her  hands  be- 
hind her  head,  while  a westerly  wind  blew  about  the 
house,  Elizabeth  again  did  her  best  to  examine  both 
her  conscience  and  her  situation. 

The  summons  which  had  taken  her  home  had  been 
a peremptory  one.  Her  mother,  who  had  been  ill 
for  a good  many  months,  had  suddenly  suffered  some 
brain  injury,  which  had  reduced  her  to  a childish 
helplessness.  She  did  not  recognize  Elizabeth,  and 
though  she  was  very  soon  out  of  physical  danger, 
the  mental  disaster  remained.  A good  nurse  was 
now  more  to  her  than  the  daughter  to  whom  she 
had  been  devoted.  A good  nurse  was  in  charge,  and 
Elizabeth  had  persuaded  an  elderly  cousin,  living  on 
a small  annuity,  to  come  and  share  her  mother’s 
rooms.  Now  what  was  more  necessary  than  ever 
was — money!  Elizabeth’s  salary  was  indispens- 
able. 

Was  she  to  allow  fine  feelings  about  Pamela  to 
drive  her  out  of  her  post  and  her  earnings — to  the 
jeopardy  not  only  of  her  mother’s  comfort,  but  of 
the  good — the  national— work  open  to  her  at  Man- 
nering? 

But  there  was  a much  more  agitating  question  be- 
hind. She  had  only  trifled  with  it  till  now.  But 
on  the  night  of  her  return  it  pressed.  And  as  a 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 


246 

reasonable  woman,  thirty  years  of  age,  she  pro- 
ceeded to  look  h in  the  face. 

V/hen  Captain  Dell  so  opportunely — or  incon- 
veniently— knocked  at  the  library  door,  Mr.  Man- 
nering  was  on  the  point  of  asking  his  secre- 
tary to  marry  him.  Of  that  Elizabeth  was 
sure. 

She  had  just  escaped,  but  the  siege  would  be 
renewed.  How  was  she  going  to  meet  it? 

Why  shouldn’t  she  marry  the  Squire?  She  was 
poor,  but  she  had  qualities  much  more  valuable  to 
the  Squire  than  money.  She  could  rescue  him  from 
debt,  put  his  estate  on  a paying  footing,  restore  Man- 
nering,  rebuild  the  village,  and  all  the  time  keep  him 
happy  by  her  sympathy  v/ith  and  understanding  of 
his  classical  studies  and  hobbies. 

And  thereby  she  would  be  doing  not  only  a private 
but  a public  service.  The  Mannering  estate  and  its 
owner  had  been  an  offence  to  the  patriotism  of  a 
whole  neighbourhood.  Elizabeth  could  and  would 
put  an  end  to  that.  She  had  already  done  much  to 
modify  it.  In  her  Greek  scholarship,  and  her  ready 
wits,  she  possessed  all  the  spells  that  were  wanted 
for  the  taming  of  the  Squire. 

As  to  the  Squire  himself?  She  examined  the  mat- 
ter dispassionately.  He  was  fifty-two — sound  in 
wind  and  limb — a gentleman  in  spite  of  all  his  oddi- 
ties and  tempers — and  one  of  the  best  Greek  scholars 
of  his  day.  She  could  make  her  own  terms.  ‘ I 
v/ould  take  his  name — give  him  my  time,  my  brains, 
my  friendship — in  time,  no  doubt,  my  affection.’  He 
would  not  ask  for  more.  The  modern  woman,  no 
longer  young,  an  intellectual,  with  a man’s  work  to 
do,  can  make  of  marriage  what  she  pleases.  The 
possibilities  of  the  relations  betw’een  men  and  women 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 


247 

in  the  future  are  many,  and  the  psychology  of  them 
unexplored.  Elizabeth  was  beginning  to  think  her 
own  case  out,  when,  suddenly,  she  felt  the  tears 
running  over  her  cheeks. 

She  was  back  in  past  days.  Mannering  had  van- 
ished. Oh — for  love  ! — for  youth ! — for  the  broken 
faith  and  the  wounded  trust! — for  the  first  fresh 
wine  of  life  that,  once  dashed  from  the  lips,  the 
gods  offer  no  more ! She  found  herself  sobbing  help- 
lessly, not  for  her  actual  lost  lover,  who  had  passed 
out  of  her  life,  but  for  those  beautiful  ghosts  at 
whose  skirts  she  seemed  to  be  clutching— youth  itself, 
love  itself. 

Had  she  done  with  them  for  good  and  all?  That 
was  what  marrying  the  Squire  meant. 

A business  marriage — on  her  side,  for  an  income, 
a home,  a career;  on  his,  for  a companion,  a secre- 
tary, an  agent.  Well,  she  said  to  herself  as  she 
calmed  down,  that  she  could  face;  but  supposing, 
after  all,  that  the  Squire  was  putting  more  into  the 
scales  than  she?  A sudden  fear  grew  strong  in  her 
— fear  lest  this  man  should  have  more  heart,  more 
romance  in  him  than  she  had  imagined  possible — 
that  while  she  was  thinking  of  a business  partner- 
ship, the  Squire  was  expecting,  was  about  to  offer, 
something  quite  different. 

The  thought  scared  and  repelled  her.  If  that  were 
indeed  the  case,  she  would  bid  Mannering  a long  and 
final  farewell. 

But  no! — she  reassured  herself;  she  recalled  the 
Squire’s  passionate  absorption  in  his  archeeological 
pursuits;  how  his  dependence  upon  her,  his  gratitude 
to  her,  his  surprising  fits  of  docility,  v/ere  all  due  to 
the  fact  that  she  helped  him  to  pursue  them — that 
his  mind  sharpened  itself  against  hers — that  her 


248  ELIZABETH’S  CA?vlPAIGN 

hand  and  brain  were  the  slaves  of  his  restless  in- 
telligence. 

That  was  all — that  must,  that  should  be  all.  She 
thought  vigorously  of  the  intellectual  comradeships 
of  history — beginning  with  Michael  Angelo  and  Vit- 
toria  Colonna.  They  were  not  certainly  quite  on 
all  fours  with  her  own  situation — but  give  modern 
life  and  the  new  woman  time ! 

Suppose,  then,  these  anxieties  set  at  rest,  and  that 
immediately,  within  twenty-four  hours,  or  a week, 
the  Squire  were  to  ask  her  to  marry  him  and  were 
ready  to  understand  the  matter  as  she  did — w’hat 
else  stood  in  the  way? 

Then,  slowly,  in  the  darkness  of  the  room,  there 
rose  before  her  the  young  figures  of  the  twins,  with 
their  arms  round  each  other’s  necks,  as  she  had  often 
seen  them — Desmond  and  Pamela.  And  they  looked 
at  her  with  hostile  eyes ! 

‘ Cuckoo ! — intriguer ! — we  don’t  want  you ! — we 
won’t  accept  you  ! ’ 

But  after  all,  as  Elizabeth  reflected  not  without 
a natural  exasperation,  she  was  not — consciously — a 
cuckoo;  she  was  not  an  intriguer;  there  was  nothing 
of  the  Becky  Sharp  about  her  at  all;  it  would  have 
been  so  very  much  simpler  if  there  had  been!  To 
swallow  the  Squire  and  Mannering  at  one  gulp,  to 
turn  out  the  twins,  to  put  Mrs.  Gaddesden — who,  as 
Elizabeth  had  already  discovered,  was  constantly 
making  rather  greedy  demands  upon  her  father — 
on  rations  according  to  her  behaviour,  to  bring  in 
her  own  poor  mother  and  all  her  needy  relations — 
to  reign  supreme,  in  fact,  over  Mannering  and  the 
county — nothing  would  be  easier. 

The  only  thing  that  stood  in  the  way  was  that  the 
Squire’s  secretary  happened  to  be  a nice  woman — 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 


249 


and  not  an  adventuress.  Elizabeth’s  sense  of  hu- 
mour showed  her  the  kind  of  lurid  drama  that  Pam- 
ela no  doubt  was  concocting  about  her — perhaps  with 
the  help  of  Beryl — the  two  little  innocents!  Eliza- 
beth recalled  the  intriguing  French  ‘ companion  ’ in 
War  and  Peace  who  inveigles  the  old  Squire.  And 
as  for  the  mean  and  mercenary  stepmothers  of  fiction, 
they  can  be  collected  by  the  score.  That,  no  doubt, 
was  how  Pamela  thought  of  her.  So  that,  after  her 
involuntary  tears,  Elizabeth  ended  in  a laughter 
that  was  half  angry,  half  affectionate. 

Poor  children  1 She  was  not  going  to  turn  them 
out  of  their  home.  She  had  written  to  Pamela  dur- 
ing her  absence  with  her  mother,  asking  again  for 
an  explanation  of  the  wild  and  whirling  things  that 
Pamela  had  said  to  her  that  night  in  the  hall,  and 
in  return  not  a single  frank  or  penitent  word ! — only 
a few  perfunctory  enquiries  after  Mrs.  Bremerton, 
and  half  a page  about  an  air-raid.  It  left  Eliza- 
beth sorer  and  more  puzzled  than  before. 

Desmond  too  1 She  had  written  to  him  also  from 
London  a long  chat  about  all  the  things  he  cared 
about  at  Mannering — the  animals,  Pamela’s  pony, 
the  old  keeper,  the  few  pheasants  still  left  in  the 
woods,  and  what  Perley  said  of  the  promise  of  a 
fair  partridge  season.  And  the  boy  had  replied  im- 
mediately. Desmond’s  Eton  manners  were  rarely 
caught  napping;  but  the  polite  little  note — stiff  and 
frosty — might  have  been  written  to  a complete 
stranger. 

What  was  in  their  minds?  How  could  she  put  it 
right?  Well,  anyhow,  Desmond  could  not  at  that 
moment  be  wasting  time  or  thought  on  home  wor- 
ries, or  her  own  supposed  misdemeanours.  Where 
was  the  radiant  boy  now?  In  some  artillery  camp, 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 


250 

she  supposed,  behind  the  lines,  waiting  for  his  ordeal 
of  blood  and  fire.  Waiting  with  the  whole  Army — 
the  whole  Empire — for  that  leap  of  the  German 
monster  which  must  be  met  and  parried  and  struck 
down  before  England  could  breathe  again.  And  as 
she  thought  of  him,  her  woman’s  soul,  winged  by  its 
passion  of  patriotism,  seemed  to  pass  out  Into  the 
night  across  the  sea,  till  it  stood  beside  the  English 
hosts. 

‘ Forces  and  Powers  of  the  Universe,  be  with 
them! — strengthen  the  strong,  uphold  the  weak, 
comfort  the  dying! — for  in  them  lies  the  hope  of  the 
world.’ 

Her  life  hung  on  the  prayer.  The  Irresponsive 
quiet  of  the  night  over  the  Mannering  woods  and 
park,  with  nothing  but  the  wind  for  voice,  seemed 
to  her  unbearable.  And  it  only  answered  to  the 
apathy  within  doors.  Why,  the  Squire  had  scarcely 
mentioned  the  war  since  her  return!  Neither  he 
nor  Mrs.  Gaddesden  had  asked  her  for  an  evening 
paper,  though  there  had  been  a bad  London  raid  the 
night  before.  She  had  seen  a letter  ‘ on  active  serv- 
ice,’ and  addressed,  she  thought.  In  Desmond’s  hand- 
writing, lying  on  the  library  table;  and  it  seemed  to 
her  there  was  a French  ordnance  map  near  it.  But 
in  answer  to  her  enquiries  about  the  boy,  the  Squire 
had  vouchsafed  only  a few  irritable  words,  ‘ Well 
— he’s  not  killed  yet!  The  devil’s  business  over 
there  seems  to  be  working  up  to  a greater  hell  than 
ever ! ’ Nothing  more. 

Well,  she  would  see  to  that!  Mannering  should 
feel  the  war.  If  she  were  to  live  in  it.  She  straight- 
ened her  shoulders,  her  will  stiffening  to  Its  task. 

Yes,  and  while  that  dear  boy  was  out  there.  In 
that  grim  fighting  line,  no  action  of  hers,  if  she  could 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 


25 1 

help  it,  should  cause  him  a moment’s  anger  or 
trouble.  Her  resolution  was  taken.  If  the  Squire 
did  mean  to  ask  her  to  marry  him  she  would  try  and 
stop  him  in  mid-career.  If  she  couldn’t  stop  him, 
well,  then,  she  would  give  him  his  choice — either  to 
keep  her,  as  secretary  and  friend,  and  hold  his  peace, 
or  to  lose  her.  She  felt  certain  of  her  power  to 
contain  the  Squire’s  ‘ offensive,’  if  it  were  really 
threatened. 

But,  on  the  other  hand,  she  was  not  going  to  give 
up  her  post  because  the  twins  had  taken  some  unjust 
prejudice  against  her!  Nothing  of  the  kind.  She 
had  those  ash  trees  to  look  after ! She  was  tolerably 
sure  that  a thorough  search  would  comb  out  a good 
many  more  for  the  Air  Board  from  the  Squire’s 
woods  than  had  yet  been  discovered.  The  Fallerton 
hospital  wanted  more  accommodation.  There  was 
an  empty  house  belonging  to  the  Squire,  which  she 
had  already  begun,  before  her  absence,  with  his 
grudging  permission,  to  get  ready  for  the  purpose. 
That  had  to  be  finished.  The  war  workroom  in 
the  village,  which  she  had  started,  must  have  another 
Superintendent,  the  first  having  turned  out  a useless 
chatterbox.  Elizabeth  had  her  successor  already  in 
mind.  There  were  three  or  four  applications  wait- 
ing for  the  two  other  neglected  farms.  Captain  Dell 
was  hurrying  on  the  repairs;  but  there  was  more 
money  wanted — she  must  get  it  out  of  the  Squire. 
Then  as  to  labour — German  prisoners? — or  women? 

Her  brain  began  to  teem  with  a score  of  projects. 
But  after  lying  awake  another  hour,  she  pulled  her- 
self up.  ‘ This  won’t  do.  I must  have  six  hours’ 
sleep.’  And  she  resolutely  set  herself  to  repeat  one 
of  the  nursery  poems  of  her  childhood,  till,  wooed  by 
its  silly  monotony,  sleep  came. 


252  ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 

It  was  a bright  March  day  in  the  Mannering 
woods,  where  the  Squire,  Elizabeth,  and  Captain 
Dell  were  hanging  about  waiting  for  Sir  Henry 
Chicksands.  The  astonishing  warmth  and  sunshine 
of  the  month  had  brought  out  a shimmer  of  spring 
everywhere,  reddened  the  great  heads  of  the  oaks, 
and  set  the  sycamore  buds  shining  like  jewels  in  the 
pale  blue.  There  was  an  endless  chatter  and  whirr 
of  wood-pigeons  in  the  high  tree-tops,  and  underfoot 
the  anemones  and  violets  were  busy  pushing  their 
gentle  way  through  the  dead  leaves  of  autumn.  The 
Squire’s  beechwoods  were  famous  in  the  neighbour- 
hood, and  he  was  still  proud  of  them;  though  for 
many  years  past  they  had  gone  unnoticed  to  decay, 
and  were  in  some  places  badly  diseased. 

To  Elizabeth,  in  an  artistic  mood — the  mood 
which  took  her  in  town  to  see  exhibitions  of  Braba- 
zon  or  Steer — the  woods  were  fairyland.  The  high 
slender  oak  of  the  middle  wood,  the  spreading  oak 
that  lived  on  Its  borders,  the  tall  columnar  beech 
feathering  into  the  sky,  its  grey  stem  shining  as 
though  by  some  magic  property  in  the  beautiful 
forest  twilight — the  gleams  and  the  shadows,  the 
sounds  and  scents  of  the  woodland  world — she  could 
talk  or  write  about  these  things  as  poetically,  and 
as  sincerely,  as  any  other  educated  person  when  put 
to  It;  but  on  this  occasion,  It  has  to  be  said  frankly, 
she  was  thinking  of  nothing  but  aeroplanes  and  ar- 
tillery waggons.  And  she  had  by  now  developed  a 
kind  of  -flair  In  the  woods,  which  was  the  astonish- 
ment of  Captain  Dell,  himself  no  mean  forester.  As 
far  as  ash  was  concerned,  she  was  a hunter  on  the 
trail.  She  could  distinguish  an  ash  tree  yards  ahead 
through  a mixed  or  tangled  wood,  and  track  It  un- 
erringly. The  thousand  ash  that  she,  and  the  old 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 


253 

park-keepers  set  on  by  her,  had  already  found  for 
the  Government,  were  nothing  to  what  she  meant 
to  find.  The  Squire’s  woods,  some  of  which  she  had 
not  yet  explored  at  all,  were  as  mines  to  her  in  which 
she  dug  for  treasure — for  the  timber  that  might  save 
her  country. 

Captain  Dell  delighted  in  her.  He  had  already 
taught  her  a great  deal,  and  was  now  drilling  her  in 
the  skilled  arts  of  measurement  and  valuation.  The 
Squire,  in  stupefaction,  watched  her  at  work  with 
pole  and  tape,  measuring,  noting,  comparing.  Had 
it  been  any  one  else  he  would  have  been  bored  and 
contemptuous.  But  the  novelty  of  the  thing  and  the 
curious  fact  that  the  lady  who  looked  up  his  Greek 
references  was  also  the  lady  who  was  measuring  the 
trees,  kept  him  a half-unwilling  but  still  fascinated 
spectator  of  her  proceedings. 

In  the  midst  of  them  Sir  Henry  Chicksands  ap- 
peared, making  his  way  through  the  thick  under- 
growth. Elizabeth  threw  a hasty  look  at  the  Squire. 
This  was  the  first  time  the  two  neighbours  had  met 
since  the  quarrel.  The  Squire  had  actually  written 
first — and  to  please  her.  Very  touching,  and  very 
embarrassing!  She  hoped  for  the  best. 

Sir  Henry  Chicksands  advanced  as  though  nothing 
had  happened — solid,  ruddy,  benevolent,  and  well 
dressed,  as  usual. 

He  bowed  with  marked  deference  to  Elizabe-th, 
and  then  offered  a hand  to  the  Squire,  which  was 
limply  accepted. 

‘ Well,  Mannering,  very  glad  to  see  you.  Like 
every  one  else,  you  seem  to  be  selling  your 
woods.’ 

‘ Under  threat  of  being  shot  if  I don’t  1 ’ said  the 
Squire  grimly. 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 


254 

‘ What?  They’re  commandeered?  ’ 

‘ The  Government  spies  are  all  about.  I pre- 
ferred to  anticipate  them.  Well,  what  about  your 
ploughed-up  grass-lands,  Chicksands?  I hear  they 
are  full  of  wire-worms,  and  the  crops  a very  poor 
show.’ 

‘ Ah,  it  was  an  enemy  said  that,’  laughed  Sir 
Henry,  submitting  with  a good  grace  to  some  more 
remarks  of  the  same  kind,  and  escaping  from  them 
as  soon  as  he  could. 

‘ I heard  of  your  haul  of  ash,’  he  said.  ‘ A man 
in  the  Air  Board  told  me.  Magnificent!  ’ 

‘ You  may  thank  her.’  The  Squire  indicated  his 
secretary.  ‘ I knew  nothing  about  it.’ 

‘ And  you’re  still  hunting?  ’ Sir  Henry  turned  to 
Elizabeth.  ‘ May  I join  your  walk  if  you’re  going 
through  the  woods?  ’ Captain  Dell  was  introduced. 

‘ You  want  my  opinion  on  your  deal?  Well,  I’m  an 
old  forester,  and  I’ll  give  it  you  with  pleasure.  I 
used  to  shoot  here,  year  after  year,  with  the  Squire, 
in  our  young  days — isn’t  that  so,  Mannering?  I 
know  this  bit  of  country  by  heart,  and  I think  I could 
help  you  to  bag  a few  more  ash.’ 

Elizabeth’s  blue  eyes  appealed  with  all  proper 
deference  to  the  Squire. 

‘ Won’t  you  come?  ’ 

He  shook  his  head. 

‘ I’m  tired  of  timber.  Do  what  you  like.  I’ll  sit 
here  and  read  till  you  come  back.’ 

Sir  Henry’s  shrug  was  perceptible,  but  he  held  his 
peace,  and  the  three  walked  away.  The  Squire, 
finding  a seat  on  a fallen  tree,  took  a book  out  of  his 
pocket  and  pretended  to  read  it. 

‘ Nobody  can  be  as  important  as  Chicksands 
looks  1 ’ he  said  to  himself  angrily.  Even  the  smil- 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 


255 

ing  manner  which  ignored  their  six  months’  quarrel 
had  annoyed  him  hugely.  It  was  a piece  of  conde- 
scension— an  impertinence.  Oh,  of  course  Chick- 
sands  was  the  popular  man,  the  greatest  power  in 
the  county,  looked  up  to,  and  listened  to  by  every- 
body. The  Squire  knew  very  well  that  he  himself 
was  ostracized,  even  hated;  that  there  had  been  gen- 
eral chuckling  in  the  neighbourhood  over  his  rough 
handling  by  the  County  Committee,  and  that  it  would 
please  a good  many  people  to  see  all  his  woods  com- 
mandeered and  ‘ cut  clean.’ 

Six  months  before,  his  inborn  pugnacity  would  only 
have  amused  itself  with  the  situation.  He  was  a 
rebel  and  a litigant  by  nature.  Smooth  waters  had 
never  attracted  him. 

Yet  now — though  he  would  never  have  admitted 
it — he  was  often  conscious  of  a flagging  will  and  a 
depressed  spirit.  The  loneliness  of  his  life,  due  en- 
tirely to  himself,  had,  during  Elizabeth  Bremerton’s 
absence,  begun  sharply  to  find  him  out.  He  had  no 
true  fatherly  relation  with  any  of  his  children.  Des- 
mond loved  him — why,  he  didn’t  know.  He  didn’t 
believe  any  of  the  others  cared  anything  at  all  about 
him.  Why  should  they? 

The  Squire’s  eyes  followed  the  three  distant  walk- 
ers, Elizabeth,  graceful  and  vigorous,  between  the 
other  two.  And  the  conviction  gripped  him  that  all 
the  pleasure,  the  liveableness  of  life — such  as  still 
remained  possible — depended  for  him  on  that  cen- 
tral figure.  He  looked  back  on  his  existence  before 
her  arrival  at  Mannering,  and  on  what  it  had  been 
since.  Why,  she  had  transformed  it! 

How  could  he  cage  and  keep  her? — the  clever, 
gracious  creature!  For  the  first  time  in  his  life 
he  was  desperately,  tremulously  humble.  He  placed 


256  ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 

210  dependence  at  all  on  his  name  or  his  possessions. 
Elizabeth  was  not  to  be  bought. 

But  management — power — for  the  things  she  be- 
lieved in — they  might  tempt  her.  He  would  give 
them  to  her  with  both  hands,  if  only  she  would  settle 
down  beside  him,  take  a freehold  of  that  chair  and 
table  in  the  library,  for  life ! 

He  looked  back  gloomily  to  his  clumsy  proposal 
about  her  mother,  and  to  her  remarks  about 
Pamela.  It  would  be  indeed  intolerable  if  his 
children  got  in  his  way!  The  very  notion  put 
him  in  a fever. 

If  that  tiresome  fellow,  Dell,  had  not  interrupted 
them  the  night  before,  what  would  have  hap- 
pened? 

He  had  all  the  consciousness  of  a man  still  in  the 
prime  of  life,  in  spite  of  his  white  hair;  for  he  had 
married  at  twenty-one,  and  had  never — since  they 
grew  up — seemed  to  himself  very  much  older  than 
his  elder  children.  He  had  but  a very  dim  memory 
of  his  wife.  Sometimes  he  felt  as  if,  notwithstand- 
ing the  heat  of  boyish  passion  which  had  led  him 
to  marry  her,  he  had  never  really  known  her.  There 
were  moments  when  he  had  an  uncomfortable  sus- 
picion that  for  some  years  before  her  death  she  had 
silently  but  irrevocably  passed  judgment  upon  him, 
and  had  withdrawn  her  inner  life  from  him.  Friends 
of  hers  had  written  to  him  after  her  death  of  beau- 
tiful traits  and  qualities  in  her  of  which  he  himself 
had  known  nothing.  In  any  case  they  were  not  traits 
and  qualities  which  appealed  in  the  long  run  to  a 
man  of  his  pursuits  and  temperament.  He  was  told 
that  Pamela  had  inherited  some  of  them. 

A light  rustling  sound  in  the  wood.  He  looked 
up  to  see  Elizabeth  coming  back  towards  him  unac- 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 


257 

companied.  Captain  Dell  and  Sir  Henry  seemed  to 
have  left  her. 

A thrill  of  excitement  ran  through  him.  They 
were  alone  in  the  depths  of  the  spring  woodland. 
What  better  opportunity  would  he  ever  have? 


CHAPTER  XIV 


Elizabeth  was  coming  back  in  that  flushed 
mood  when  an  able  man  or  woman  who  begins 
to  feel  the  tide  of  success  or  power  rising  be- 
neath them  also  begins  to  remind  himself  or  herself 
of  all  the  old  commonplaces  about  Fate  or  Chance. 
Elizabeth’s  Greek  reading  had  steeped  her  in  them. 
‘ Count  no  man  happy  till  his  death’ ; ‘ Count  noth- 
ing finished  till  the  end  ’;  tags  of  this  kind  were  run- 
ning through  her  mind,  while  she  smiled  a little  over 
the  compliments  that  Sir  Henry  had  been  paying 
her. 

He  could  not  express,  he  said,  the  relief  with  which 
he  had  heard  of  her  return  to  Mannering.  ‘ Don’t, 
please,  go  away  again ! ’ Everybody  in  the  county 
who  was  at  all  responsible  for  Its  war-work  felt  the 
same.  Her  example,  during  the  winter,  had  been 
invaluable,  and  the  skill  with  which  she  had  brought 
the  Squire  Into  line,  and  set  the  Squire’s  neglected 
estate  on  the  road  to  food-production,  had  been — 
in  Sir  Henry’s  view — nothing  short  of  a miracle. 

‘Yes,  a miracle,  my  dear  lady!’  repeated  Sir 
Henry  warmly.  ‘ I know  the  prickliness  of  our 
good  friend  there  ! I speak  to  you  confidentially,  be- 
cause I realize  that  you  could  not  possibly  have  done 
what  you  have  done  unless  you  had  won  the  Squire’s 
confidence — his  complete  confidence.  Well,  that’s 
an  achievement,  I can  tell  you — as  bad  as  storming  a 
redoubt.  Go  on — don’t  let  go  1 What  you  are  doing 
here — the  kind  of  work  you  are  doing — is  of  national 

258 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 


259 


importance.  God  only  knows  what  lies  before  us  in 
the  next  few  months ! ’ 

And  therewith  a sudden  sobering  of  the  ruddy 
countenance  and  self-important  manner.  For  a few 
seconds,  from  his  mind  and  Elizabeth’s  there  van- 
ished all  consciousness  of  the  English  woodland 
scene,  and  they  were  looking  over  a flayed  and  rav- 
aged country  v;here  millions  of  men  stood  ranged 
for  battle. 

Sir  Henry  sighed. 

‘ Thank  God,  Arthur  is  still  at  home^ — doing  some 
splendid  work,  they  tell  me,  at  the  War  Office,  but, 
of  course,  pining  to  be  off  to  France  again.  I hear 
from  him  that  Desmond  is  somewhere  near  Armen- 
tieres.  Well,  good-bye — I tied  my  horse  to  the  gate, 
and  must  get  home.  Stick  to  it!  Say  good-bye  to 
the  Squire  for  me— -I  shall  be  over  again  before  long. 
If  there  is  anything  I can  do  for  you — -count  upon 
me.  But  we  count  upon  you  1 ’ 

Astonishing  effusion  I — from  an  elderly  gentleman 
who,  at  the  beginning  of  things,  had  regarded  her  as 
elderly  gentlemen  of  great  local  position  do  regard 
young  women  secretaries  who  are  earning  their  own 
living.  Sir  Henry’s  tone  was  now  the  tone  of  one 
potentate  to  another;  and,  as  we  have  seen,  it  caused 
Elizabeth  to  tame  her  soul  with  Greek,  as  she  walked 
back  through  the  wood  to  rejoin  the  Squire. 

When  she  perceived  him  waiting  for  her,  she 
wished  with  some  fervour  that  she  were  not  alone. 
She  had  tried  to  keep  Captain  Dell  with  her,  but 
he  had  pleaded  an  urgent  engagement  at  a village 
near  the  farther  end  of  the  wood.  And  then  Sir 
Henry  had  deserted  her.  It  was  annoying— and  un- 
foreseen. 

The  Squire  observed  her  as  she  came  up—the 


26o 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 


light,  springing  step,  the  bunch  of  primroses  In  her 
belt.  He  closed  the  book,  of  which  he  had  not  in 
truth  read  a word. 

‘You  have  been  a long  time?’ 

‘ But  I assure  you  It  was  well  worth  while ! ’ 
She  paused  in  front  of  him,  a little  out  of  breath, 
leaning  on  her  measuring-pole.  ‘ We  found  ten  or 
twelve  more  ash — some  exactly  of  the  size  they 
want.’ 

‘ Who  are  “ they  ” ? ’^ 

‘ The  Air  Board,’  said  Elizabeth,  smiling. 

‘ The  fellows  that  wrote  me  that  letter?  I didn’t 
want  their  thanks.’ 

Elizabeth  took  no  notice.  She  resumed — 

‘ And  Sir  Henry  went  Into  the  figures  of  that  con- 
tract with  Captain  Dell.  He  thinks  the  Captain  has 
done  very  well,  and  that  the  prices  are  very  fair — 
very  good.  In  fact.’ 

‘ All  the  same,  I don’t  mean  to  accept  their  blessed 
contract.’ 

‘ Oh,  but  I thought  it  was  settled!  ’ cried  Eliza- 
beth In  distress.  She  sat  down  on  a dry  stump  a 
little  way  off,  and  the  Squire  actually  enjoyed  the 
sight  of  her  discomfiture. 

‘ Why  on  earth  should  I allow  these  people,  not 
only  to  make  a hideous  mess  of  my  woods,  and 
murder  my  trees,  but  to  take  three  years — three 
years — over  the  disgusting  business,  before  they  get 
it  all  done  and  clear  up  the  mess?  One  year  is  the 
utmost  I will  allow.’ 

Elizabeth  looked  consternation. 

‘ But  think  of  the  labour  difficulties,’  she  pleaded. 
‘ The  contractor  can’t  get  the  men.  Of  course,  he 
wants  to  cut  and  move  the  trees  as  soon  as  he  can, 
so  as  to  get  his  money  back.’ 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 


261 


‘ That’s  his  affair,’  said  the  Squire  obstinately.  ‘ I 
want  to  get  my  woods  in  a decent  state  again,  so 
that  I mayn’t  be  for  ever  reminded  that  I sold  them 
— betrayed  them — for  filthy  lucre.’ 

‘Nol’  said  Elizabeth  firmly,  her  colour  rising, 
‘ for  the  Army ! ’ 

The  Squire  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

‘ So  they  say.  Meanwhile  the  timber-man  makes 
an  unholy  profit.’ 

There  was  silence  for  a moment,  then  Elizabeth 
said, 

‘ Do  you  really  mean  to  stick  to  that  condition?  ’ 

‘ I should  be  glad  if  Dell  would  see  to  it.’ 

‘ Then  ’ — said  Elizabeth  slowly — ‘ the  contract 
will  drop.  I understand  they  cannot  possibly  pledge 
themselves  to  removal  within  the  time  named.’ 

‘Well,  there  are  other  timber-merchants.’ 

‘ The  difficult  of  labour  is  the  same  for  every- 
body. And  Caj  lin  Dell  thinks  no  one  else  would 
give  the  price — . rtainly  not  the  Government.  You 
will  remember  that  some  of  the  money  was  to 
be  spent  immediately.’  Her  tone  was  cold 
and  restrained,  but  he  thought  it  trembled  a 
little. 

‘ I know,’  he  Interrupted,  ‘ on  cottages  and  the 
hospital.  Money  oozes  away  at  every  pore ! I 
shall  be  a bare  beggar  after  the  war.  Have  you  the 
contract  there?  Or  did  Dell  take  it?’ 

Elizabeth  drew  a roll  of  blue  paper  out  of  her 
pocket.  Her  indignation  made  her  speechless.  All 
the  endless  negotiations,  Captain  Dell’s  work,  her 
work — to  go  for  nothing!  What  was  the  use  of  try- 
ing to  serve — to  work  with  such  a man  ? 

The  Squire  took  the  roll  from  her  and  searched 
his  pockets  for  a fountain-pen. 


262 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 


‘ I will  make  some  notes  on  it  now  for  Dell’s 
guidance.  I might  forget  it  to-night.’ 

Elizabeth  said  nothing.  He  turned  away,  spread 
out  the  papers  on  the  smooth  trunk  of  the  fallen 
tree,  and  began  to  writte. 

Elizabeth  sat  very  erect,  her  mouth  proudly  set, 
her  eyes  wandering  into  the  distance  of  the  wood. 
What  was  she  to  do?  The  affront  to  herself  was 
gross — for  the  Squire  had  definitely  promised  her 
the  night  before  that  the  bargain  should  go  through. 
And  she  felt  hotly  for  the  hard-working  agent. 
Should  she  put  up  with  it?  Her  meditations  of  the 
night  recurred  to  her — and  she  seemed  to  herself  a 
very  foolish  woman ! 

‘There  you  are!’  said  the  Squire,  as  he  handed 
the  roll  back  to  her. 

She  looked  at  it  unwillingly.  Then  jher  face 
changed.  She  stooped  over  the  contract.  Below 
the  signature  of  the  firm  of  timber-merchants  stood 
large  and  full  that  of  ‘ Edmund  Mannering.’ 

The  Squire  smiled. 

.‘Now  are  you  satisfied?’ 

She  returned  the  contract  to  its  envelope,  and 
both  to  her  pocket.  Then  she  looked  at  him  un- 
certainly. 

‘ May  I ask  what  that  meant?’ 

Her  voice  was  still  strained,  and  her  eyes  by  no 
means  meek. 

‘ I am  sorry,’  said  the  Squire  hurriedly.  ‘ I don’t 
know — it  was  a whim.  I wanted  to  have  the  pleas- 
ure  ’ 

‘ Of  seeing  how  a person  looks  under  a sudden 
disappointment?’  said  Elizabeth,  with  rather 
pinched  lips. 

‘ Not  at  all.  It  was  a childish  thing — I wanted  to 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN  263 

see  you  smile  when  I gave  you  the  thing  back.  There 
— that’s  the  truth.  It  was  you  disappointed  me ! ’ 

Elizabeth’s  wrath  vanished.  She  hid  her  face  in 
her  hands  and  laughed.  But  there  was  agitation 
behind  the  laughter.  These  were  not  the  normal 
ways  of  a reasonable  man. 

When  she  looked  up,  the  Squire  had  moved  to  a 
log  close  beside  her.  The  March  sun  was  pouring 
down  upon  them,  and  there  was  a robin  singing, 
quite  undisturbed  by  their  presence,  in  a holly-bush 
near.  The  Squire’s  wilful  countenance  had  never 
seemed  to  Elizabeth  more  full  of  an  uncanny  and 
even  threatening  energy.  Involuntarily  she  with- 
drew her  seat. 

‘ I wish  to  be  allowed  to  make  a very  serious 
proposition  to  you,’  he  said  eagerly,  ‘ one  that  I have 
been  considering  for  weeks.’ 

Elizabeth — rather  weakly — put  up  a protesting 
hand. 

‘ I am  afraid  I must  point  out  to  you,  Mr.  Manner- 
ing,  that  Mrs.  Gaddesden  will  be  waiting  lunch.’ 

‘ If  I know  Alice,  she  will  not  wait  lunch  I And 
anyway  there  are  things  more  important  than  lunch. 
May  I take  it  for  granted.  Miss  Bremerton,  that  you 
have  not  been  altogether  dissatisfied  with  your  life 
here  during  this  six  months  ? ’ 

Elizabeth  looked  him  gravely  in  the  face.  It  was 
clear  there  was  to  be  no  escape. 

‘ How  could  I have  been,  Mr.  Mannering?  You 
have  taught  me  a great,  great  deal — and  given  me 
wonderful  opportunities.’ 

The  Squire  nodded,  with  a look  of  satisfaction. 

‘ I meant  to.  Of  course  Chicksands  would  say 
that  it  was  only  my  own  laziness — that  I have  given 
you  the  work  I ought  to  have  done  myself.  My 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 


264 

reply  would  be  that  it  was  not  my  work.  If  a man 
happens  to  be  born  to  a job  he  is  not  in  the  least 
fitted  for,  that’s  the  affair  of  Providence.  Provi- 
dence bungled  it  when  he,  she,  or  it — take  which 
pronoun  you  like — rdjy,  as  you  and  I know,  is 
feminine — made  me  a landowner.  My  proper  job 
was  to  dig  up  and  decipher  what  is  left  of  the  Greeks. 
And  if  any  one  says  that  the  two  jobs  are  not  tanti, 
and  the  landowning  job  is  more  important  than  the 
other,  I disagree  with  him  entirely,  and  it  would  be 
impossible  for  him  to  prove  it.  But  there  was  a 
vacuum — that  I quite  admit — and  Nature — or  Provi- 
dence— disliked  it.  So  she  sent  you  along,  my  dear 
lady!  ’ — he  turned  upon  her  a glowing  countenance 
— ‘ and  you  fitted  it  exactly.  You  laid  hands  on 
what  has  proved  to  be  your  job,  and  Chicksands,  I 
expect,  has  been  telling  you  how  marvellously  you’re 
doing  it,  and  begging  you  not  to  let  this  duffer  ’ — 
the  Squire  pointed  to  his  leather  waistcoat — ‘ get 
hold  of  it  again.  Hasn’t  he?’ 

He  smiled  triumphantly,  as  Elizabeth’s  sudden 
flush  showed  that  his  shaft  had  hit.  But  he  would 
not  let  her  speak. 

‘ No — please  don’t  interrupt  me  1 Of  course  Chick- 
sands  took  that  view.  Any  sensible  man  would — net 
that  Henry  is  really  a sensible  man.  Well,  now, 
then — I want  to  ask  you  this.  Don’t  these  facts 
point  to  a rather — remarkable — combination?  You 
assist  me  in  the  job  that  I was  born  for.  I have  been 
fortunate  enough  to  be  able  to  put  into  your  hands 
the  job  that  you  apparently  were  born  for.  And 
you  will  forgive  me  for  saying  that  it  might  have 
been  difficult  for  you  to  find  it  without  my  aid. 
Nature — that  is — seems  to  have  endowed  you  not 
only  with  a remarkable  head  for  Greek,  but  also  with 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 


265 

the  capacity  for  dealing  with  the  kind  of  people 
who  drive  me  distracted — agents  and  timber-mer- 
chants, and  stuck-up  county  officials,  whom  I want 
to  slay.  And  you  combine  your  job  with  an  ideal- 
ism— just  as  I do  mine.  You  say  “ it’s  for  the 
country  ” or  “ for  the  army,”  as  you  did  just  now. 
And  I scribble  and  collect — for  art’s  sake — for 
beauty’s  sake — for  the  honour  of  human  genius — 
what  you  like ! What  then  could  be  more  reason- 
able— more  natural  ’ — the  Squire  drew  himself  up 
gravely — ‘ than  that  you  and  I should  join  forces — ■ 
permanently?  That  I should  serve  your  ideas — 
and  you  should  serve  mine  ? ’ 

The  Squire  broke  off,  observing  her.  Elizabeth 
had  listened  to  this  extraordinary  speech  with  grow- 
ing bewilderment.  She  had  dreaded  lest  the  Squire 
— in  proposing  to  marry  her — should  make  love  to 
her.  But  the  coolness  of  the  bargain  actually  sug- 
gested to  her,  the  apparent  absence  from  it  of  any 
touch  of  sentiment,  took  her  completely  aback.  She 
was  asked,  in  fact,  to  become  his  slave — his  bailiff 
and  secretary  for  life — and  the  price  was  offered. 

Her  face  spoke  for  her,  before  she  could  express 
her  feeling  in  words.  The  Squire,  watching  her, 
hurriedly  resumed. 

‘ I put  it  like  an  idiot!  What  I meant  was  this. 
If  I could  induce  you  to  marry  me — and  put  up  with 
me — I believe  both  our  lives  might  be  much  more 
interesting  and  agreeable ! ’ 

The  intensity  of  the  demand  expressed  in  his  pale 
hazel  eyes  and  frowning  brow  struck  full  upon 
her. 

But  Elizabeth  slowly  shook  her  head. 

‘ I am  very  grateful  to  you,  Mr.  Mannering, 
but  ’ — a rather  ironical  smile  showed  itself — ‘ I think 


266  ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 

you  hardly  understand  me.  We  should  never  get 
on.’ 

‘Why?’ 

‘ Because  our  temperaments — our  characters — 
are  so  different.’ 

‘ You  can’t  forgive  me  about  the  war?  ’ 

‘Well,  that  hurts  me,’  she  said,  after  a moment, 
‘but  I leave  that  to  Mr.  Desmond.  No!  I am 
thinking  of  myself  and  you.  What  you  propose  does 
not  attract  me  at  all.  Marriage — in  my  view — wants 
something — deeper — to  build  on  than  you  suggest.’ 

‘ Inconsistent  woman ! ’ cried  the  inner  voice,  but 
Elizabeth  silenced  it.  She  was  not  inconsistent.  She 
would  have  resented  love-making,  but  feeling — 
something  to  gild  the  chain ! — that  she  had  certainly 
expected.  The  absence  of  it  humiliated  her. 

The  Squire’s  countenance  fell. 

‘ Deeper?  ’ Le  said,  with  a puzzled  look.  ‘ I won- 
der what  you  mean?  I haven’t  anything  “ deeper.” 
There  isn’t  anything  “ deep  ” about  me.’ 

Was  it  true?  Elizabeth  suddenly  recalled  those 
midnight  steps  on  the  night  of  Desmond’s  depar- 
ture. 

‘You  know,’  he  resumed,  ‘ for  you  have  worked 
with  me  now  for  six  months — you  know  at  least 
what  kind  of  a man  I am.  I assure  you  it’s  at  any 
rate  no  worse  than  that ! And  if  I ever  annoyed  you 
too  much,  why  you  could  always  keep  me  in  order — 
by  the  mere  threat  of  going  away!  I could  have  cut 
my  throat  any  day  with  pleasure  during  those  weeks 
you  were  absent ! ’ 

Again  Elizabeth  hid  her  face  in  her  hands  and 
laughed — rather  hysterically.  There  was  something 
in  this  last  appeal  that  touched  her — some  note  of 
‘ the  imperishable  child,’  which  indeed  she  had  al- 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 


267 


ways  recognized  in  the  Squire’s  strange  personality. 

The  Squire  waited — frowning.  When  she  looked 
up  at  last  she  spoke  in  her  natural  friendly  voice. 

‘ I don’t  think,  Mr.  Mannering,  we  had  better  go 
on  talking  like  this.  I can’t  accept  what  you  offer 


me- 


‘ Again  I can’t  think  why,’  he  interrupted  vehem- 
ently; ‘you  have  given  me  no  sort  of  explanation. 
Why  must  you  refuse?  ’ 

‘ Because  I don’t  feel  like  it,’  she  said,  smiling. 
‘ That’s  all  I need  say.  Please  don’t  think  me  un- 
grateful. You’ve  offered  me  now  a position  and  a 
home — and  you’ve  given  me  my  head  all  this  time. 
I shall  never  forget  it.  But  I’m  afraid ’ 

‘ That  now  I’ve  made  such  an  ass  of  myself 
you’ll  have  to  go  ? ’ 

She  thought  a moment. 

‘ I don’t  know  that  I need  say  that — if — if  I could 
be  sure ’ 

‘ Of  what?  Name  your  conditions!  ’ 

His  face  suddenly  lightened  again.  And  again 
a quick  compunction  struck  her. 

She  looked  at  him  gently. 

‘ It’s  only — that  I couldn’t  stay  here — you  will 
see  of  course  that  I couldn’t — unless  I were  quite 
sure  that  this  was  dead  and  buried  between  us — 
that  you  would  forget  it  entirely — and  let  me  forget 


Was  it  fancy,  or  did  the  long  Don  Quixotish 
countenance  quiver  a little? 

‘ Very  well.  I will  never  speak  of  it  again.  Will 
that  do?’  There  was  a long  pause.  The  Squire’s 
stick  attacked  a root  of  primroses  closely,  prized  it 
out  of  the  damp  ground,  and  left  it  there.  Then  he 
turned  to  his  companion  with  a changed  aspect. 


268 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 


‘Well,  now,  then — we  are  as  we  were — and’ — 
with  a long  half-indignant  breath — ‘ remember  I 
have  signed  that  contract!’ 

He  rose  from  his  seat  as  he  spoke. 

They  walked  home  together  through  the  great 
wood,  and  across  the  park.  They  were  mostly  silent. 
The  Squire’s  words  ‘ we  are  as  we  were  ’ echoed 
in  the  ears  of  both.  And  yet  both  were  secretly 
aware  that  something  irrevocable  had  happened. 

Then,  suddenly,  beating  down  all  the  personal 
trouble  and  disquiet  in  Elizabeth’s  mind,  there  rushed 
upon  her  afresh,  as  she  walked  beside  the  Squire, 
that  which  seemed  to  shame  all  personal  feeling — 
the  renewed  consciousness  of  England’s  death-grap- 
ple with  her  enemy — the  horror  of  its  approaching 
crisis.  How  could  this  strange  being  at  her  elbow 
be  still  deaf  and  blind  to  it! 

They  parted  in  the  hall. 

‘ Shall  I expect  you  at  six?’  said  the  Squire  for- 
mally. ‘ I have  some  geographical  notes  I should 
like  you  to  take  down.’ 

She  assented.  He  went  to  his  study,  and  shut  him- 
self in.  For  a long  time  he  paced  up  and  down, 
flinging  himself  finally  into  a chair  in  front  of  Des. 
mond’s  portrait.  There  his  thoughts  took  shape. 

‘ Well,  my  boy,  I thought  I’d  won  some  trenches 
— but  the  counter-attack  has  swept  me  out.  Where 
are  you?  Are  you  still  alive?  If  not,  I shan’t  be 
long  after  you.  I’m  getting  old,  my  boy — and  this 
world,  as  the  devil  has  made  it,  is  not  meant  for 
me.’ 

He  remained  there  for  some  time,  his  hands  on 
his  knees,  staring  into  the  bright  face  of  his  son. 

Elizabeth  too  went  to  her  room.  On  her  table 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN  269 

lay  the  Times.  She  took  it  up  and  read  the  tele- 
grams again.  Raid  and  counter-raid  all  along  the 
front — and  in  every  letter  and  telegram  the  shudder 
of  the  nearing  event,  ghastly  hints  of  that  incredible 
battlefield  to  come,  that  hideous  hurricane  of  death 
in  which  Europe  was  to  see  once  more  her  noblest 
and  her  youngest  perish. 

‘ Oh,  why,  why  am  I a woman?  ’ she  clasped  her 
hands  above  her  head  in  a passion  of  revolt.  ‘ What 
does  one’s  own  life  matter?  Why  waste  a thought — 
an  hour  upon  it ! ’ 

In  a second  she  was  at  her  table  putting  together 
the  notes  she  had  made  that  morning  in  the  wood. 
About  a hundred  and  fifty  more  ash  marked  in  that 
wood  alone ! — thanks  to  Sir  Henry.  She  rang  up 
Captain  Dell,  and  made  sure  that  they  would  be 
offered  that  night  direct  to  the  Government  timber 
department — the  Squire’s  ash,  for  greater  haste, 
having  been  now  expressly  exempted  from  the  gen- 
eral contract.  Canadians  were  coming  down  to  fell 
them  at  once.  They  must  be  housed.  One  of  the 
vacant  farms,  not  yet  let,  was  to  be  got  ready  for 
them.  She  made  preliminary  arrangements  by  tele- 
phone. Then,  after  a hasty  lunch,  at  which  the 
Squire  did  not  appear,  and  Mrs.  Gaddesden  was 
more  than  usually  languid  and  selfish,  Elizabeth 
rushed  off  to  the  village  on  her  bicycle.  The  hos- 
pital Commandant  was  waiting  for  her,  with  such 
workpeople  as  could  be  found,  and  the  preparation  of 
the  empty  house  for  fifty  more  beds  was  well  begun. 
Elizabeth  was  frugal,  but  resolute,  with  the  Squire’s 
money.  She  had  leave  to  spend.  But  she  would  not 
abuse  her  power;  and  all  through  her  work  she  was 
conscious  of  a queer  remorseful  gratitude  towards 
the  man  in  whose  name  she  was  acting. 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 


270 

Then  she  bicycled  to  the  School,  where  a group 
of  girls  whom  she  had  captured  for  the  land  were 
W'aiting  to  see  her.  Their  uniforms  were  lying 
ready  on  one  of  the  schoolroom  tables.  She  helped 
the  girls  to  put  them  on,  laughing,  chatting,  admiring 
— ready  besides  with  a dozen  homely  hints  on  how 
to  keep  well — how  to  fend  for  themselves,  perhaps 
In  a lonely  cottage — how  to  get  on  with  the  farmer — 
above  all,  how  to  get  on  with  the  farmer’s  wife.  Her 
sympathy  made  everything  worth  while — put  colour 
and  pleasure  into  this  new  and  strange  adventure, 
of  women  going  out  to  break  up  and  plough  and 
sow  the  ancient  land  of  our  fathers,  which  the  fight- 
ing men  had  handed  over  to  them.  Elizabeth  decked 
the  task  with  honour,  so  that  the  girls  in  their  khaki 
stood  round  her  at  last  glowing,  though  dumb ! — 
and  felt  themselves — as  she  bade  them  feel — the 
comrades-in-arms  of  their  sweethearts  and  their 
brothers. 

Then  with  the  March  twilight  she  was  again  at 
Mannering.  She  changed  her  bicycling  dress,  and 
six  o’clock  found  her  at  her  desk,  obediently  writ- 
ing from  the  Squire’s  dictation. 

He  put  her  through  a stiff  series  of  geographical 
notes,  including  a number  of  quotations  from  Homer 
and  Herodotus,  bearing  on  the  spread  of  Greek  cul- 
ture in  the  Aegean.  During  the  course  of  them  he 
broke  out  once  or  twice  into  his  characteristic  say- 
ings and  illustrations,  racy  or  poetic,  as  usual,  and 
Elizabeth  would  lift  her  blue  eyes,  with  the  respon- 
sive look  in  them,  on  which  he  had  begun  to  think 
all  his  real  power  of  work  depended.  But  not  a 
word  passed  between  them  on  any  other  subject; 
and  when  it  was  over  she  rose,  said  a quiet  good- 
night, and  went  away.  After  she  had  gone,  the 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 


271 

Squire  sat  over  the  fire,  brooding  and  motionless, 
for  most  of  the  evening. 

One  March  afternoon,  a few  days  later,  the  fol- 
lowing letter  reached  Pamela,  who  was  still  with  her 
sister.  It  was  addressed  in  Desmond  Mannering’s 
large  and  boyish  handwriting. 

‘ B.E.F.,  March. 

‘ My  dear  Pamela — I am  kicking  my  heels  here 
at  an  engineer’s  store,  waiting  for  an  engineer  officer 
who  is  wanted  to  plan  some  new  dug-outs  for  our 
battery,  and  as  there  is  no  one  to  talk  to  in- 
side except  the  most  inarticulate  Hielander  I ever 
struck,  I shall  at  last  make  use  of  one  of  your 
little  oddments,  my  dear,  which  are  mostly 
too  good  to  use  out  here — and  write  you  a 
letter  on  a brand  new  pocket-pad,  with  a brand 
new  stylo. 

‘ I expect  you  know  from  Arthur  about  where 
we  are.  It’s  a pretty  nasty  bit  of  the  line.  The 
snipers  here  are  the  cleverest  beasts  out.  There 
isn’t  a night  they  don’t  get  some  of  us,  though  our 
fellows  are  as  sharp  as  needles  too.  I went  over 
a sniping  school  last  week  with  a jolly  fellow  who 
used  to  hunt  lions  in  Africa.  My  hat! — we  have 
learnt  a thing  or  two  from  the  Huns  since  we  started. 
But  you  have  to  keep  a steady  look-out,  I can  tell 
you.  There  was  a man  here  last  night  in  a sniper’s 
post,  shooting  through  a trench  loophole,  you  under- 
stand, which  had  an  iron  panel.  Well,  he  actually 
went  to  sleep  with  his  rifle  in  his  hand,  having  had 
a dog’s  life  for  two  or  three  nights.  But,  for  a 
mercy,  he  had  pulled  down  his  panel — didn’t  know 
he  had!-— and  the  next  thing  he  knew  was  a bullet 
spattering  on  it — ^just  where  his  eye  should  have 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 


272 

been.  He  was  jolly  quick  In  backing  out  and  Into  a 
dug-out,  and  an  hour  later  he  got  the  man. 

‘ But  there  was  an  awful  thing  here  last  night. 
An  officer  was  directing  one  of  our  snipers — stooping 
down  just  behind  him,  when  a Hun  got  him— right 
in  the  eyes.  I was  down  at  the  dressing-station 
visiting  one  of  our  men  who  had  been  knocked  over 
— and  I saw  him  led  in.  He  was  quite  blind, — and 
as  calm  as  anything — telling  people  what  to  do,  and 
dictating  a post  card  to  the  padre,  who  was  much 
more  cut  up  than  he  was.  I can  tell  you,  Pamela, 
our  Army  is  fine!  Well,  thank  God,  I’m  in  it — 
and  not  a year  too  late.  That’s  what  I keep  saying 
to  myself.  And  the  great  show  can’t  be  far  off  now. 
I wouldn’t  miss  it  for  anything,  so  I don’t  give  the 
Hun  any  more  chances  of  knocking  me  over  than 
I can  help. 

‘ You  always  want  to  know  what  things  look  like, 
old  Pam,  so  I’ll  try  and  tell  you.  In  the  first  place, 
it’s  just  a glorious  spring  day.  At  the  back  of  the 
cranky  bit  of  a ruined  farm  where  we  have  our 
diggings  (by  the  way,  you  may  always  go  back  at 
night  and  find  half  your  bedroom  shot  away — that 
happened  to  me  the  other  night — there  was  a tunic 
of  mine  still  hanging  on  the  door,  and  when  you 
opened  the  door,  nothing  but  a hole  ten  feet  deep 
full  of  rubble — jolly  luck,  it  didn’t  happen  at  night- 
time!) there  are  actually  some  lilac  trees,  and  the 
buds  on  them  are  quite  big.  And  somehow  or  other 
the  birds  manage  to  sing  in  spite  of  the  hell  the 
Huns  have  made  of  things. 

‘ I’m  looking  out  now  due  east.  There’s  a tangled 
mass  of  trenches  not  far  off,  where  there’s  been  some 
hot  raiding  lately.  I see  an  engineer  officer  with  a 
fatigue  party  working  away  at  them — he’s  showing 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 


273 


the  men  how  to  lay  down  a new  trench  with  tapes 
and  pegs.  Just  to  my  left  some  men  are  filling  up 
a crater.  Then  there’s  a lorry  full  of  bits  of  an 
old  corduroy  road  they’re  going  to  lay  down  some- 
where over  a marshy  place.  There  are  two  sausage 
balloons  sitting  up  aloft,  and  some  aeroplanes  com- 
ing and  going.  Our  front  line  is  not  more  than  a 
mile  away,  and  the  German  line  is  about  a mile  and 
a quarter.  Far  off  to  my  right  I can  just  see  a 
field  with  tanks  in  it.  Ah — there  goes  a shell  on  the 
Hun  line — another ! Can’t  think  why  we’re  tun- 
ing up  at  this  time  of  day.  We  shall  be  getting 
some  of  their  heavy  stuff  over  directly,  if  we  don’t 
look  out.  It’s  rot! 

‘ And  the  sun  is  shining  like  blazes  on  it  all.  As 
I came  up  I saw  some  of  our  men  resting  on  the 
grass  by  the  wayside.  They  were  going  up  to  the 
trenches — but  it  was  too  early — the  sun  was  too 
high — they  don’t  send  them  in  till  dusk.  Awfully 
good  fellows  they  looked  1 And  I passed  a company 
of  Bantams,  little  Welsh  chaps,  as  fit  as  mustard. 
Also  a poor  mad  woman,  with  a basket  of  cakes  and 
chocolate.  She  used  to  live  in  the  village  where  I’m 
sitting  now — on  a few  bricks  of  it,  I mean.  Then 
her  farm  was  shelled  to  bits  and  her  old  husband 
and  her  daughter  killed.  And  nothing  will  persuade 
her  to  go.  Our  people  have  moved  her  away  several 
times — but  she  always  comes  back — and  now  they 
let  her  alone.  Our  soldiers  indeed  are  awfully  good 
to  her,  and  she  looks  after  the  graves  in  the  little 
cemetery.  But  when  you  speak  to  her,  she  never 
seems  to  understand,  and  her  eyes — well,  they  haunt 
one. 

‘ I’m  beginning  to  get  quite  used  to  the  life — and 
lately  I have  been  doing  some  observation  work 


274 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 


with  an  F.O.O.  (that  means  Forward  Observation 
Officer),  which  is  awfully  exciting.  Your  business 
on  these  occasions  Is  to  get  as  close  to  the  Germans 
as  you  can,  without  being  seen,  and  you  take  a tele- 
phonist with  you  to  send  back  word  to  the  guns,  and, 
by  Jove,  we  do  get  close  sometimes! 

‘ Well,  dear  old  Pam,  there’s  my  engineer  coming 
across  the  fields,  and  I must  shut  up.  Mind — if  I 
don’t  come  back  to  you — you’re  just  to  think,  as  I 
told  you  before,  that  it’s  all  right.  Nothing  matters 
— nothing — but  seeing  this  thing  through.  Any  day 
we  may  be  in  the  thick  of  such  a fight  as  I suppose 
was  never  seen  In  the  world  before.  Or  any  night — 
hard  luck!  one  may  be  killed  in  a beastly  little  raid 
that  nobody  will  ever  hear  of  again.  But  anyway 
it’s  all  one.  It’s  worth  it. 

* Your  letters  don’t  sound  to  me  as  though  you 
were  particularly  enjoying  life.  Why  don’t  you  ever 
give  me  news  of  Arthur?  He  writes  me  awfully 
jolly  letterSi  and  always  says  something  nice  about 
you.  Father  has  w'ritten  to  me  three  times — decent, 
I call  it, — though  he  always  abuses  Lloyd  George, 
and  generally  puts  some  Greek  in  I can’t  read.  I 
wonder  if  we  were  quite  bight  about  Broomie? 
You  never  say  anything  about  her  either.  But  I 
got  a letter  from  Beryl  the  other  day,  and  what 
Miss  B.  seems  to  be  doing  with  Father  and  the  estate 
is  pretty  marvellous. 

‘ All  the  same  I don’t  hear  any  gossip  as  to  what 
you  and  I were  afraid  of.  I wonder  If  I was  a brute 
to  answer  her  as  I did — and  after  her  nice  letter  to 
me?  Anyway,  it’s  no  wonder  she  doesn’t  write  to 
me  any  more.  And  she  did  tell  me  such  a lot  of 
news. 

‘ Good-bye.  Your  writing-pad  is  really  ripping. 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 


275 


Likewise  pen.  Hullo,  there  go  some  more  shells. 
I really  must  get  back  and  see  what’s  up. — Your 
loving 

‘ Desmond." 

Meanwhile  in  the  seething  world  of  London, 
where  the  war-effort  of  an  Empire  was  gathered  up 
into  one  mighty  organism,  the  hush  of  expectancy 
grew  ever  deeper.  Only  a few  weeks  or  days  could 
now  divide  us  from  the  German  rush  on  Paris  and 
the  coast.  Behind  the  German  lines  all  was  move- 
ment and  vast  preparation.  Any  day  England  might 
rise  to  find  the  last  fight  begun. 

Yet  morning  after  morning  all  the  news  that  came 
was  of  raids,  endless  raids,  on  both  sides — a per- 
petual mosquito  fight,  buzzing  now  here,  now  there, 
as  information  was  wanted  by  the  different  Com- 
mands. Many  lives  were  lost  day  by  day,  many 
deeds  of  battle  done.  But  it  all  seemed  as  nothing — 
less  than  nothing — to  those  whose  minds  were  fixed 
on  the  clash  to  come. 

Then  one  evening,  early  in  the  second  week  in 
March,  a telegram  reached  Aubrey  Mannering  at 
Aldershot.  He  rushed  up  to  town,  and  went  first 
to  the  War  Office,  where  Chicksands  was  at  work. 

Chicksands  sprang  up  to  meet  him, 

‘You’ve  heard?  I’ve  just  got  this.  I made  his 
Colonel  promise  to  wire  me  if ’ 

He  pointed  to  an  open  telegram  on  his  table : 

“ Desmond  badly  hit  in  raid  last  night.  Tell  his 
people.  Authorities  will  probably  give  permission 
to  come.  Well  looked  after.” 

The  two  men  stared  at  each  other. 

‘ I have  wired  to  my  father,’  said  Mannering, 
‘ and  am  now  going  to  meet  him  at  King’s  Cross. 


276  ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 

Can  you  go  and  tell  Pamela  to  get  ready — or  Mar- 
garet? But  he’ll  want  Pamela!  ’ 

Neither  was  able  to  speak  for  a moment,  till 
Mannering  said,  ‘ I’ll  bring  my  father  to  Margaret’s, 
and  then  I’ll  go  and  see  after  the  permits.’ 

He  lingered  a moment. 

‘ I — I think  it  means  the  worst.’ 

Chicksands’  gesture  was  one  of  despair. 

Then  they  hurried  away  from  the  War  Office 
together. 


CHAPTER  XV 


Ir  was  afternoon  at  Mannering. 

Elizabeth  was  walking  home  from  the  village 
through  the  park.  Still  the  same  dry  east-wind 
weather — very  cold  in  the  wind,  very  warm  in  the 
sun.  If  the  German  offensive  began  while  these  fine 
days  held,  they  would  have  the  luck  of  weather  as 
we  had  never  had  it.  Think  of  the  drenching  rains 
and  winds  of  the  Passchendaele  attack!  In  the  pop- 
ular mind  the  notion  of  ‘ a German  God  ’ was  tak- 
ing actual  concrete  shape.  A huge  and  monstrous 
form,  sitting  on  a German  hill,  plotting  with  the 
Kaiser,  and  ordering  the  weather  precisely  as  the 
Kaiser  wished — it  was  thus  that  English  superstition, 
aided  by  Imperial  speeches  and  telegrams,  began  to 
be  haunted. 

Yet  the  world  was  still  beautiful — the  silvery 
stems  of  the  trees,  the  flitting  of  the  birds,  the  violet 
carpets  underfoot.  On  the  fighting  line  itself  there 
was  probably  a new  crop  of  poets,  hymning  the 
Spring  with  Death  for  listener,  as  Julian  Grenfell 
and  Rupert  Brooke  had  hymned  it,  in  that  first 
year  of  the  war  that  seems  now  an  eternity  behind 
us. 

Moving  along  a path  converging  on  her  own, 
Elizabeth  perceived  the  Squire.  For  the  first  time 
that  morning  he  had  put  off  their  joint  session,  and 
she  had  not  seen  him  all  day.  Her  mind  was  now 
always  uneasily  aware  of  him — aware,  too,  of  some 
change  in  him,  for  which  in  some  painful  way  she 

277 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 


278 

felt  herself  responsible.  He  had  grown  strangely 
tame  and  placable,  and  it  was  generally  noticed  that 
he  looked  older.  Yet  he  was  more  absorbed  than 
ever  in  the  details  of  Greek  research  and  the  labour 
of  his  catalogue.  Only,  of  an  evening,  he  read  the 
Times  for  a couple  of  hours,  generally  in  complete 
silence,  while  Elizabeth  and  Mrs.  Gaddesden  talked 
and  knitted. 

An  extraordinary  softness — an  extraordinary 
compassion — was  steadily  invading  Elizabeth’s  mind 
in  regard  to  him.  Something  suggested  to  her  that 
he  had  come  into  life  maimed  of  some  essential 
element  of  being,  possessed  by  his  fellow-men,  and 
that  he  was  now  conscious  of  the  lack,  as  a Greek 
Faun  might  be  conscious  of  the  difference  between 
his  life  and  that  of  struggling  and  suffering  men. 
Nothing,  indeed,  could  less  suggest  the  blithe  nature- 
life  which  Greek  imagination  embodied  in  the  Faun, 
than  the  bizarre  and  restless  aspect  of  the  Squire. 
This  spare  white-haired  man,  with  his  tempers  and 
irritations,  was  far  indeed  from  Greek  joyousness. 
And  yet  the  Greek  sense  of  beauty,  half  intellectual, 
half  sensuous,  had  always  seemed  to  her  the  strong- 
est force  in  him.  Was  it  now  besieged  by  something 
else? — was  the  Faun  in  him,  at  last,  after  these 
three  years,  beginning  to  feel  the  bitter  grip  of 
humanity  ? 

‘“Deeper”?  I don’t  know  what  you  mean. 
There  is  nothing  “ deep  ” in  me ! ’ She  often  re- 
called that  saying  of  his,  and  the  look  of  perplexity 
which  had  accompanied  it. 

To  herself  of  late  he  had  been  always  courteous 
and  indulgent;  she  had  hardly  had  an  uncivil  word 
from  him ! But  it  seemed  to  her  that  he  had  also 
begun  to  avoid  her,  and  the  suspicion  hurt  her  amaz- 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 


279 

ingly.  If  indeed  it  were  true,  then  leave  Manner- 
ing  she  must. 

He  came  up  with  her  at  a cross-road,  and  threw 
her  a look  of  enquiry. 

‘ You  have  been  to  the  village?  ’ 

‘To  the  hospital.  Thirty  fresh  wounded  arrived 
last  night’ 

‘ I have  just  seen  Chicksands,’  said  the  Squire 
abruptly.  ‘ Arthur  tells  him  the  German  lattack 
must  be  launched  in  a week  or  two,  and  may  come 
any  day.  A million  men,  probably,  thrown  against 
us.’ 

‘ So — the  next  few  months  will  decide,’  said  Eliza- 
beth, shuddering. 

‘ My  God! — -why  did  we  ever  go  into  this  war!  ’ 
cried  the  man  beside  her  suddenly,  in  a low,  stifled 
voice.  She  glanced  at  him  in  astonishment.  The 
new  excuses,  the  new  tenderness  for  him  in  her 
heart  made  themselves  heard. 

‘ It  was  for  honour,’  she  breathed — ‘ for  free- 
dom 1 ’ 

‘ Words— just  words.  They  don’t  stop  bombs!  ’ 

But  there  was  nothing  truculent  in  the  tone. 

‘ You  had  a line  from  Mr.  Desmond  this  morn- 
ing?’ 

‘Yes — fi  post  card.  He  was  all  right.’ 

Silence  dropped  between  them.  They  walked 
on  through  the  beautiful  wooded  park.  Carpets  of 
primroses  ran  beside  them,  and  masses  of  wild  cherry 
blossoms  were  beginning  to  show  amid  the  beeches. 
Elizabeth  was  vaguely  conscious  of  beauty,  of  warm 
air,  of  heavenly  sun.  But  the  veil  upon  the  face  of 
all  nations  was  upon  her  eyes  also. 

When  they  reached  the  house,  the  Squire  said, 

‘ I looked  up  the  passage  In  the  Persae  that 


28o 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 


occurred  to  me  yesterday.  Will  you  come  and  take 
it  down  ? ’ 

They  went  into  the  library  together.  On  a spe- 
cial table  in  front  of  the  Squire’s  desk  there  stood  a 
magnificent  Greek  vase  of  the  early  fifth  century 
B.C.  A king — Persian,  from  his  dress — was  sitting 
in  a chair  of  state,  and  before  him  stood  a small 
man  apparently  delivering  a message.  ^AyyaXo?  was 
roughly  written  over  his  head. 

The  Squire  walked  up  and  down  with  a text  of  the 
Persae  in  his  hand. 

‘ “ This  vase,”  he  dictated,  “ may  be  compared 
with  one  signed  by  Xenophantos,  in  the  Paris  col- 
lection, the  subject  of  which  is  the  Persian  king, 
hunting.  Here  we  have  a Persian  king,  identified 
by  his  dress,  apparently  receiving  a message  from 
his  army.  We  may  illustrate  it  by  the  passage  in 
the  Persae  of  vEschylus,  where  Atossa  receives  from 
a messenger  the  account  of  the  battle  of  Salamis — 
a passage  which  contains  the  famous  lines  describ- 
ing the  Greek  onslaught  on  the  Persian  fleet: 

‘ “ ‘ Then  might  you  hear  a mighty  shout  arise — 

‘“‘Go,  ye  sons  of  Hellas! — free  your  fathers, 
free  your  children  and  your  wives,  the  temples  of 
your  gods,  and  the  tombs  of  your  ancestors.  For 
now  is  all  at  stake  ! . . ,’ 

‘ We  may  recall  also  the  final  summing  up  by 
the  ayysXo?  of  the  Persian  defeat — 

‘ “ ‘ Never,  on  a single  day,  was  there  so  great  a 
slaying  of  men.’  ” ’ 

Elizabeth  took  down  the  words,  first  in  Greek  and 
then  in  English.  They  rang  in  her  ears,  long  after 
she  had  transcribed  them.  The  Squire  moved  up 
and  down  in  silence,  absorbed  apparently  in  the  play 
which  he  went  on  reading. 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN  281 

Outside  the  light  was  failing.  It  was  close  on  six 
o’clock,  and  summer  time  had  not  yet  begun. 

Suddenly  the  Squire  raised  his  head. 

‘ That,  I think,  was  the  telephone  ? ’ 

Elizabeth  rose — 

‘ May  I go?  It  is  probably  Captain  Dell.’ 

She  hurried  away  to  her  office-room,  where  the 
call-bell  was  insistently  ringing. 

‘Yes — who  is  that?’ 

‘A  telegram  please — for  Mr.  Mannering — from 
London.’ 

‘ Wait  a moment — I will  tell  Mr.  Mannering.’ 

But  as  she  turned  to  go  back  to  the  library  she 
saw  the  Squire  had  followed  her,  and  was  standing 
at  the  door.  He  came  forward  at  once  and  took  up 
the  receiver, 

Elizabeth  watched  him  with  a fast  beating  pulse. 
He  heard  the  message,  took  out  a pencil  and  wrote 
it  down  on  a piece  of  paper  lying  near,  put  up  the 
receiver,  and  turned  to  her. 

‘ It  is  from  Aubrey.  “ Desmond  is  severely 
wounded.  Please  come  at  once.  Permission  will 
be  given  to  you  and  Pamela  to  go  to  France.  I hope 
to  go  with  you.  Will  meet  you  King’s  Cross  8.40. 
Aubrey.”  ’ 

He  steadied  himself  a moment  by  a hand  on 
Elizabeth’s  table.  She  went  up  to  him,  and  took 
his  other  hand,  which  closed  an  instant  on  hers. 

‘ I thought  so,’  he  said,  under  his  breath.  ‘ I 
knew  it.  . . . Telephone,  please,  to  Fallerton  for 
the  taxi,  while  I go  and  speak  to  Forest.’ 

She  gave  the  order  and  then  hastened  into  the 
hall  where  Mrs.  Gaddesden  was  busy  trimming  a 
hat.  The  Squire’s  eldest  daughter  sprang  up  at 
sight  of  Elizabeth. 


282  ELIZABETH'S  CAMPAIGN 

‘ Oh,  what  is  it?  I know  it’s  bad  news — it’s  Des- 
mond ! ’ 

Elizabeth  repeated  the  telegram.  ‘ Your  father  is 
going  off  at  once.  I have  telephoned  for  the  car.’ 

‘ Oh,  but  I must  go  too — of  course  I m.ust!  ’ said 
Alice,  weeping.  ‘Where  is  my  maid?’ 

Elizabeth  pointed  out  gently  that,  in  speaking 
of  the  permits  for  France,  Major  Mannering  had 
only  referred  to  the  Squire  and  Pamela. 

‘ Oh,  but  he  must  have  meant  me  too — of  course 
he  must!  Where  is  my  maid?  ’ She  rang  the  up- 
stairs’ bell  violently.  ‘ Oh,  father,  how  awful! 
the  Squire  had  just  entered  the  hall — ‘ of  course  I’m 
going  with  you  ? ’ 

‘What  does  she  mean?’  said  the  Squire  impa- 
tiently to  Elizabeth.  ‘ Tell  her  I’m  going  alone.’ 

‘ But,  father,  you  must  take  me ! ’ cried  Alice,  run- 
ning forward  with  clasped  hands.  ‘ He  is  my 
brother  1 I must  see  him  again  ! ’ 

‘ He  asks  for  Pamela,’  said  the  Squire  grimly. 
‘ Aubrey  shall  wire  to  you.  You’d  better  stay  here — 
if  Miss  Bremerton  will  look  after  you.’ 

‘ I don’t  want  to  be  looked  after — I want  to  look 
after  Desmond  and  you,’  said  Alice,  with  sobs. 

The  Squire’s  eyes  travelled  over  the  soft  elabo- 
ration of  her  dress  and  hair — all  her  perfumed  and 
fashionable  person. 

‘ It  is  impossible,’  he  said  sharply.  Then  turning 
to  Elizabeth  he  gave  her  a few  directions  about  his 
letters.  ‘ I shall  get  money  in  town.  I will  wire 
directly  we  arrive.’ 

Alice  was  silenced,  and  sat  half  sulky,  half  sob- 
bing, by  the  fire,  while  the  preparations  for  depar- 
ture went  forward.  She  offered  help  hysterically 
once  or  twice,  but  it  was  not  needed. 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 


283 

The  little  car  from  the  village  arrived  in  half  an 
hour.  The  Squire  stood  at  the  hall  door  waiting 
for  it.  He  had  not  spoken  since  the  news  arrived 
except  to  give  the  most  necessary  orders.  But  as  he 
saw  the  car  nearing  thq  house,  he  turned  to  Eliza- 
beth. 

I expect  we  shall  cross  to-night.  I shall  wire  you 
to-morrow.’  Then  to  Forest — 

‘ Do  your  best  to  help  Miss  Bremerton.  She  is 
in  charge  of  everything.’ 

‘ Aye,  sir.  You’ll  give  our  duty  to  Mr.  Desmond, 
sir.  I trust  you’ll  bring  him  home.’ 

The  Squire  made  no  reply.  He  stood  motion- 
less till  the  car  arrived,  stepped  into  it,  and  was 
gone. 

Elizabeth  went  back  into  the  house,  and  to  Alice 
Gaddesden,  still  sobbing  by  the  fire.  At  sight  of 
Elizabeth  she  broke  out  into  complaints  of  her 
father’s  unkindness,  mixed  presently,  to  Eliza- 
beth’s dismay,  with  jealousy  of  her  father’s  sec- 
retary. 

‘ I don’t  know  why  father  didn’t  let  me  help  him 
with  his  packing,  and  it’s  I who  should  have  been 
left  in  charge ! I’m  his  eldest  daughter — it  is  nat- 
ural that  I should  be.  I can  tell  you  it’s  very  hard — 
to  see  somebody — who’s  not  a relation — doing — 
doing  everything  for  him ! — so  that  he  won’t  let 
anybody  else  advise  him — or  do  anything ! It  is  very 
— very — wounding  for  us  all.  Pamela  feels  it — I 
know  she  does — and  Desmond  too.’ 

Elizabeth,  very  v/hite  and  distressed,  knelt  down 
by  her  and  tried  to  calm  her.  But  the  flood  of  angry 
self-pity  could  not  be  stayed. 

‘ Oh,  I daresay  you  don’t  mean  it,  but  you  have — 
yes,  you  have  a way  of  getting  everybody’s  atten- 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 


284 

tion.  Of  course  you’re  awfully  clever — much  clev- 
erer than  I am — or  Pamela.  But  still  it — it  isn’t 
pleasant.  I know  Pamela  felt  it  dreadfully — ^being 
cut  out  with  people  she  likes — people  she  cares 
about — and  who — who  might  care  for  her — like 
Arthur  Chicksands.  I believe — yes,  I do  believe — 
though  she  never  told  me — that’s  why  she  went  to 
London.’ 

Elizabeth  rose  from  her  knees.  For  a moment 
she  was  struck  dumb.  And  when  at  last  she  spoke 
it  was  only  to  repeat  the  name  Mrs.  Gaddesden  had 
mentioned  in  utter  bewilderment. 

‘Captain  Chicksands!  What  can  you  mean?’ 

‘ Why,  of  course  girls  can’t  hold  their  own  with 
older  women  when  the  older  women  are  so  charming 
and  clever — and  all  that  ’ — cried  Mrs.  Gaddesden, 
trying  desperately  to  justify  herself — ‘ but  I’ve  been 
awfvilly  sorry  for  Pamela  1 Very  likely  it’s  not  your 
fault — you  couldn’t  know,  I daresay!  ’ 

‘No,  indeed,  I didn’t  know!  ’ said  Elizabeth,  in 
a low  voice,  ‘ and  I can’t  understand  now  what  you 
mean.’ 

‘ Don’t  you  remember  the  day  Arthur  Chicksands 
spent  here  just  before  Desmond  went?  Don’t  you 
remember  how  he  talked  to  you  all  the  afternoon 
about  the  woods?  Well,  I saw  Pamela’s  face  as  she 
was  sitting  behind  you.’ 

Mrs.  Gaddesden  raised  a triumphant  though  tear- 
stained  countenance.  She  was  avenging  not  only  her 
father’s  latest  slight,  but  a long  series  of  grievances 
— small  and  great — connected  with  Elizabeth’s  po- 
sition in  the  house.  And  the  Squire’s  farewell  to 
her  had  turned  even  her  grief  to  gall. 

‘ If  Pamela  was  hurt,  I was  a most  innocent 
cause ! ’ said  Elizabeth  at  last,  indignantly.  ‘ And 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN  285 

if  you  or  any  one  else  had  given  me  the  smallest 
hint ’ 

‘ How  could  we  ? ’ was  the  rather  sulky  reply. 
‘ Pamela,  of  course,  never  said  a word — to  me.  But 
I rather  think  she  did  say  something  to  Desmond.’ 

‘ Desmond  1 ’ cried  Elizabeth  under  her  breath. 
She  turned  slowly,  and  went  av/ay,  leaving  Mrs. 
Gaddesden  panting  and  a little  scared  at  what  she 
had  done. 

Elizabeth  went  back  to  the  library,  where  there 
was  much  to  put  in  order.  She  forced  herself  to  tidy 
the  Squire’s  table,  and  to  write  a business  letter  or 
two.  But  when  that  was  done  she  dropped  her  face 
in  her  hands,  and  shed  a few  very  bitter  tears. 

She  seemed  to  herself  to  have  failed  miserably. 
In  truth,  her  heart  clung  to  all  these  people.  She 
soon  attached  herself  to  those  with  whom  she  lived, 
and  was  but  little  critical  of  them.  The  w^arm,  ma- 
ternal temper  which  went  with  her  shrewd  brain 
seemed  to  need  perpetually  objects  on  which  to  spend 
itself.  She  could  have  loved  the  tv/ins  dearly  had 
they  let  her,  and  day  by  day,  in  the  absence  of  the 
mother,  she  had  been  accustomed  to  nurse,  she  had 
even  positively  enjoyed  ‘ petting  ’ Mrs.  Gaddesden, 
holding  her  wool  for  her,  seeing  to  her  hot-water 
bottles,  and  her  breakfast  in  bed. 

Pamela  in  love  with  Arthur  Chicksands ! And  she 
remembered  that  a faint  idea  of  it  had  once  crossed 
her  mind,  only  to  be  entirely  dismissed  and  for- 
gotten. 

‘ But  I ought  to  have  seen — I ought  to  have 
known ! Am  I really  a vampire  ? ’ 

And  she  remembered  how  she,  in  her  first  youth, 
had  suffered  from  the  dominance  and  the  accomplish- 
ment of  older  women;  women  who  gave  a girl  no 


286 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 


chance,  who  must  have  all  the  admiration,  and  all 
the  opportunities,  who  would  coolly  and  cruelly 
snatch  a girl’s  lover  from  her. 

‘ And  that’s  how  I’ve  appeared  to  Pamela ! ’ 
thought  Elizabeth  between  laughing  and  crying. 
‘ Yet  all  I did  was  to  talk  about  ash  for  aeroplanes! 
Oh,  you  poor  child — you  poor  child ! ’ 

She  seemied  to  feel  Pamela’s  pain  in  her  own 
heart — she  who  had  had  love  and  lost  it. 

‘ Am  I just  an  odious,  clever  woman  ? ’ She  sat 
down  and  hated  herself.  All  the  passing  vanity  that 
had  been  stirred  in  her  by  Sir  Henry’s  compliments, 
all  the  natural  pleasure  she  had  taken  in  the  success 
of  her  great  adventure  as  a business  woman,  in  the 
ease  with  which  she,  the  Squire’s  paid  secretary,  had 
lately  begun  to  lead  the  patriotic  effort  of  an  English 
county— how  petty,  how  despicable  even,  it  seemed, 
in  presence  of  a boy  who  had  given  his  all! — even 
beside  a girl  in  love ! 

And  the  Squire — ‘Was  I hard  to  him  too?’ 

The  night  came  down.  All  the  strange  or  beau- 
tiful shapes  in  the  library  wavered  and  flickered 
under  the  firelight — the  glorious  Nike — the  Eros — 
the  noble  sketch  of  the  boy  in  his  cricketing 
dress.  . . . 

The  following  morning  came  a telegram  from 
Aubrey  Mannering  to  Mrs.  Gaddesden.  Elizabeth 
had  done  her  best  to  propitiate  her  but  she  remained 
cold  and  thorny,  and  when  the  telegram  came  she 
was  pleased  that  the  news  came  to  her  first,  and — 
tragic  as  it  was — that  Elizabeth  had  to  ask  her  for 
it ! 

‘ Terrible  wounds.  Fear  no  hope.  We  shall 
bring  him  home  as  soon  as  possible.’ 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN  287 

But  an  hour  later  arrived  another — from  the 
Squire  to  Elizabeth. 

‘ Have  a bed  got  ready  in  the  library.  Des- 
mond’s wish.  Also  accommodation  near  for  surgeon 
and  nurses.  May  be  able  to  cross  to-morrow.  Will 
wire.’ 

But  it  was  nearly  two  days  before  the  final  mes- 
sage arrived — from  Pamela  to  her  sister.  ‘ Expect 
us  7.20  to-night’ 

By  that  time  the  ground-floor  of  the  west  wing  had 
been  transformed  into  a temporary  ward  with  its 
adjuncts,  under  the  direction  of  a Fallerton  doctor, 
who  had  brought  Desmond  into  the  world  and  pulled 
him  through  his  childish  illnesses.  Elizabeth  had 
moved  most  of  the  statues,  transferred  the  Sargent 
sketch  to  the  drawing-room,  and  put  all  the  small 
archaeological  litter  out  of  sight.  But  the  Nike  was 
too  big  and  heavy  to  be  moved,  and  Elizabeth  re- 
membered that  Desmond  had  always  admired  ‘ the 
jolly  old  thing  ’ with  its  eager  outstretched  wings 
and  splendid  brow.  Doctor  Renshaw  shook  his  head 
over  the  library  as  a hospital  ward,  and  ordered  a 
vast  amount  of  meticulous  cleaning  and  disinfection. 

‘No  hope?’  he  said,  frowning.  ‘How  do  we 
know?  Anyway  there  shall  be  no  poison  I can  help.’ 
But  the  boy’s  wish  was  law. 

On  the  afternoon  before  the  arrival,  Elizabeth 
was  seized  with  restlessness.  When  there  was  noth- 
ing more  to  be  done  in  the  way  of  hospital  provision 
(for  which  a list  of  everything  needed  had  been  sent 
ahead  to  Doctor  Renshaw) — of  flowers,  of  fair 
linen — and  when,  in  spite  of  the  spring  sun  shining 
in  through  all  the  open  windows  on  the  bare  spotless 
boards,  she  could  hardly  bear  the  sight  and  meaning 
of  the  transformation  which  had  come  over  the 


288 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 


room,  she  found  herself  aimlessly  wandering  about 
the  big  house,  filled  with  a ghostly  sense  of  past  and 
future.  What  was  to  be  the  real  meaning  of  her 
life  at  Mannering?  She  could  not  have  deserted 
the  Squire  in  the  present  crisis.  She  had  indeed  no 
false  modesty  as  to  what  her  help  would  mean,  prac- 
tically, to  this  household  under  the  shadow  of  death. 
At  least  she  could  run  the  cook  and  the  servants, 
wrestle  with  the  food  difficulties,  and  keep  the 
Squire’s  most  essential  business  going. 

But  afterwards?  She  shivered  at  the  word.  Yes, 
afterwards  she  would  go!  And  Pamela  should 
reign. 

Suddenly,  in  a back  passage,  leading  from  her  office 
to  the  housekeeper’s  room,  she  came  upon  a boy  of 
fourteen.  Forest’s  hall-boy,  really  a drudge-of-all- 
work,  on  whom  essential  things  depended.  He  was 
sitting  on  a chair  beside  the  luggage  lift  absorbed  in 
some  work,  over  which  his  head  was  bent,  while 
an  eager  tip  of  tongue  showed  through  his  tightened 
lips. 

‘What  are  you  doing,  Jim?’  Elizabeth  paused 
beside  the  boy,  who  had  always  appeared  to  her  as 
a simple,  docile  creature,  not  very  likely  to  make 
much  way  in  a jostling  world. 

‘ Please,  Miss,  I’m  knitting,’  said  Jim,  raising  a 
flushed  face. 

‘Knitting!  Knitting  what?  ’ 

‘ Knitting  a sock  for  my  big  brother.  He’s  in 
France,  Miss.  Mother  learnt  me.’ 

Elizabeth  was  silent  a moment,  watching  the 
clumsy  fingers  as  they  struggled  with  the  needles. 

‘Are  you  very  fond  of  your  brother,  Jim?’  she 
asked  at  last. 

‘ Yes,  Miss,’  said  the  boy,  stooping  a little  lower 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 


289 

over  his  work.  Then  he  added,  ‘ There’s  only  him 
and  me- — and  mother.  Father  was  killed  last  year.’ 

‘ Do  you  know  where  he  is?  ’ 

‘ No,  Miss.  But  Mr.  Desmond  told  me  Vv^hen  he 
was  here  he  might  perhaps  see  him.  And  I had  a 
letter  from  Mr.  Desmond  ten  days  ago.  He’d  come 
across  Bob,  and  he  wrote  me  a letter.’ 

And  out  of  his  pocket  he  pulled  a grimy  envelope, 
and  put  it  into  Elizabeth’s  hands. 

‘ Do  you  want  me  to  read  it,  Jim?  ’ 

‘ Please,  Miss.’  But  she  was  hardly  able  to  read 
the  letters  for  the  dimness  in  her  eyes.  Just  a boyish 
letter — from  a boy  to  a boy.  But  it  had  in  it,  quite 
unconsciously,  the  sacred  touch  that  ‘ makes  us 
men.’ 

A little  later  she  was  in  the  village,  where  a 
woman  she  knew — one  Mary  Wilson — was  dying,  a 
woman  who  had  been  used  to  come  up  to  do  charing 
work  at  the  Hall,  before  the  last  illness  of  a bed- 
ridden father  kept  her  at  home.  Mary  was  still 
under  fifty,  plain,  clumsy,  and  the  hardest  worker 
in  the  village.  She  lived  at  the  outbreak  of  war  with 
her  father  and  mother.  Her  brother  had  been 
killed  at  Passchendaele,  and  Mary’s  interest  in  life 
had  vanished  with  him.  But  all  through  the  winter 
she  had  nursed  her  father  night  and  day  through  a 
horrible  illness.  Often,  as  Elizabeth  had  now  dis- 
covered, in  the  bitterest  cold  of  the  winter,  she  had 
had  no  bed  but  the  flagstones  of  the  kitchen.  Not  a 
word  of  complaint — and  a few  shillings  for  both  of 
them  to  live  upon ! 

At  last  the  father  died.  And  the  night  he  died 
Mary  staggered  across  to  the  wretched  cottage  of 
a couple  of  old-age  pensioners  opposite.  ‘ I must 
rest  a bit,’  she  said,  and  sitting  down  in  a chair  by 


290 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 


the  fire  she  fainted.  Influenza  had  been  on  her  for 
some  days,  and  now  pneumonia  had  set  in.  The  old 
people  would  not  hear  of  her  being  taken  back  to  her 
deserted  cottage.  They  gave  up  their  own  room  to 
her;  they  did  everything  for  her  their  feeble  strength 
allowed.  But  the  fierce  disease  beat  down  her  small 
remaining  strength.  Elizabeth,  since  the  story  came 
to  her  knowledge,  had  done  her  best  to  help.  But 
it  was  too  late. 

She  went  now  to  kneel  at  the  beside  of  the  dying 
woman.  Mary’s  weary  eyes  lifted,  and  she  smiled 
faintly  at  the  lady  who  had  been  kind  to  her. 
Then  unconsciousness  returned,  and  the  village 
nurse  gave  it  as  her  opinion  that  the  end  was 
near. 

Elizabeth  looked  round  the  room.  Thank  God 
the  cottage  did  not  belong  to  the  Squire ! The  bed- 
room was  about  ten  feet  by  seven,  with  a sloping 
thatched  roof,  supported  by  beams  three  centuries 
old.  The  one  window  was  about  two  feet  square. 
The  nurse  pointed  to  it. 

‘ The  doctor  said  no  pneumonia  case  could  pos- 
sibly recover  in  a room  like  this.  And  there  are 
dozens  of  them,  Miss,  in  this  village.  Oh,  Mary 
is  glad  to  go.  She  nursed  her  mother  for  years,  and 
then  her  father  for  years.  She  never  had  a day’s 
pleasure,  and  she  was  as  good  as  gold.’ 

Elizabeth  held  the  clammy,  misshapen  hand,  press- 
ing her  lips  to  it  when  she  rose  to  go,  as  to  the  gar- 
ment of  a saint. 

Then  she  walked  quickly  back  through  the  fading 
spring  day,  her  heart  torn  with  prayer  and  remorse 
— remorse  that  such  a life  as  Mary  Wilson’s  should 
have  been  possible  within  reach  of  her  own  life  and 
she  not  know  it;  and  passionate  praying  for  a better 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN  291 

world,  through  and  after  the  long  anguish  of  the 
war. 

‘ Else  for  what  will  these  boys  have  given  their 
lives ! — what  meaning  in  the  suffering  and  the  agony! 
— or  in  the  world  which  permits  and  begets  them?  ’ 

Then,  at  last,  it  was  past  seven  o’clock.  The  dusk 
had  fallen,  and  the  stars  were  coming  out  in  a pure 
pale  blue,  over  the  leafless  trees.  Elizabeth  and 
Alice  Gaddesden  stood  waiting  at  the  open  door  of 
the  hall.  A motor  ambulance  was  meeting  the  train. 
They  would  soon  be  here  now. 

Elizabeth  turned  to  Mrs.  Gaddesden. 

‘ Won’t  you  give  a last  look  and  see  if  it  is  all 
right  ? ’ 

Alice’s  weak,  pretty  face  cleared,  as  she  went  off 
to  give  a final  survey  to  Desmond’s  room.  She  ad- 
mitted that  Elizabeth  had  been  ‘ nice  ’ that  dav,  and 
all  the  days  before.  Perhaps  she  had  been  hasty. 

Lights  among  the  distant  trees  1 Elizabeth 
thought  of  the  boy  who  had  gone  out  from  that 
door,  two  months  before,  in  the  charm  and  beauty 
of  his  young  manhood.  What  wreck  was  it  they 
were  bringing  back? 

Then  the  remembrance  stabbed  her  of  that  curt 
note  from  France — of  what  Mrs.  Gaddesden  had 
said.  She  withdrew  into  the  background.  With  all 
the  rest  to  help,  she  would  not  be  wanted.  Yes,  she 
had  been  too  masterful,  too  prominent. 

Two  motors  appeared,  the  ambulance  motor  be- 
hind another.  They  drew  up  at  the  side  door  lead- 
ing direct  through  a small  lobby  to  the  library,  and 
the  Squire,  his  eldest  son,  and  Captain  Chicksands 
stepped  out — then  Pamela. 

Pamela  ran  up  to  her  sister.  The  girl’s  eyes  were 
red  with  crying,  but  she  was  composed. 


292 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 


‘ On  the  whole,  he  has  borne  the  journey  well. 
Where  is  Miss  Bremerton?’ 

Elizabeth,  hearing  her  name,  emerged  from  the 
shadow  in  which  she  was  standing.  To  her  aston- 
ishment Pamela  threw  an  arm  round  her  neck  and 
kissed  her. 

‘Is  everything  ready?’ 

‘Everything.  Will  you  come  and  see?’ 

‘Yes.  They  won’t  want  us  here.’ 

For  the  lobby  was  small;  and  surgeon  and  nurses 
were  already  standing  beside  the  open  door  of  the 
ambulance,  the  surgeon  giving  directions  to  the 
stretcher-bearers  of  the  estate  who  had  been 
waiting. 

Pamela  looked  at  the  bed,  the  nurses’  table,  the 
bare  boards,  the  flowers.  Her  face  worked  pitifully. 
She  turned  to  Elizabeth,  who  caught  her  in  her 
arms. 

‘ Oh,  I am  glad  you  have  put  the  picture  away!  ’ 

One  deep  sob,  and  she  recovered  herself. 

‘ He’s  not  much  disfigu’  ed,’  she  murmured,  ‘ only 
a cut  on  the  forehead.  Most  of  the  journey  he  has 
been  quite  cheerful.  That  was  the  morphia.  But 
he’s  tired  now.  They’re  coming  in.’ 

But  it  was  the  Squire  who  entered — asking  per- 
emptorily for  Miss  Bremerton. 

The  well-known  voice  struck  some  profound  re- 
sponse in  Elizabeth.  She  turned  to  him.  How 
changed,  how  haggard,  was  the  aspect! 

‘ Martin — that’s  the  surgeon  we’ve  brought  with 
us — wants  something  from  Fallerton  at  once.  Ren- 
shaw’s  here,  but  he  can’t  be  spared  for  telephoning. 
Come,  please ! ’ 

But  before  she  could  pass  through  the  door,  it 
was  filled  by  a procession.  The  stretcher  came 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN  293' 

through,  followed  by  the  surgeon  and  nurses  who 
had  come  from  France.  Elizabeth  caught  a glimpse 
of  a white  face  and  closed  eyes.  It  was  as  though 
something  royal  and  sacred  entered  the  hushed 
room.  She  could  have  fallen  on  her  knees,  as  in  a 
Breton  ‘ pardon  ’ when  the  Host  goes  by. 


CHAPTER  XVI 


The  bustle  of  the  arrival  was  over.  The  doctors 
had  given  their  orders,  the  nurses  were  at  their 
posts  for  the  night,  and,  under  morphia,  Des- 
mond was  sleeping.  In  the  shaded  library  there 
were  only  hushed  voices  and  movements.  By  the 
light  of  the  one  lamp,  which  was  screened  from  the 
bed,  one  saw  dimly  the  fantastic  shapes  in  the 
glass  cases  which  lined  the  walls — the  little  Tanagra 
figures  with  their  sun-hats  and  flowing  dress — 
bronzes  of  Apollo  or  Hermes — a bronze  bull — an 
ibex — a cup  wreathed  with  acanthus.  And  in  the 
shadow  at  the  far  end  rose  the  great  Nike.  She 
seemed  to  be  asking  what  the  white  bed  and  the 
shrouded  figure  upon  it  might  mean — protesting  that 
these  were  not  her  symbols,  or  a language  that  she 
knew. 

Yet  at  times,  as  the  light  varied,  she  seemed  to 
take  another  aspect.  To  Aubrey,  sitting  beside  his 
brother,  the  Nike  more  than  once  suggested  the 
recollection  of  a broken  Virgin  hanging  from  a 
fragment  of  a ruined  church  which  he  remembered 
on  a bit  of  road  near  Mametz,  at  which  he  had 
seen  passing  soldiers  look  stealthily  and  long.  Her 
piteous  arms,  empty  of  the  babe,  suggested  mother- 
hood to  boys  fresh  from  home ; and  there  were  mo- 
ments when  this  hovering  Nike  seemed  to  breathe 
a mysterious  tenderness  like  hers — became  a proud 
and  splendid  angel  of  consolation — only,  indeed,  to 
resume,  with  some  fresh  change  in  the  shadows,  its 
pagan  indifference,  its  exultant  loneliness. 

294 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 


295 

The  Squire  sat  by  the  fire,  staring  into  the  redness 
of  the  logs.  Occasionally  nurse  or  doctor  would 
come  and  whisper  to  him.  He  scarcely  seemed  to 
hear  them.  What  was  the  good  of  talking?  He 
knew  that  Desmond  was  doomed — that  his  boy’s 
noble  body  was  shattered — and  the  end  could  only 
be  a question  of  days — possibly  a week.  During  the 
first  nights  of  Desmond’s  sufferings,  the  Squire  had 
lived  through  what  had  seemed  an  eternity  of  tor- 
ment. Now  there  was  no  more  agony.  Morphia 
could  be  freely  given — and  would  be  given  till  all 
was  over.  The  boy’s  young  strength  was  resisting 
splendidly,  a vitality  so  superb  was  hard  to  beat;  but 
beaten  it  would  be,  by  the  brutality  of  the  bullet 
which  had  inflicted  an  internal  injury  past  repair, 
against  which  the  energy  of  the  boy’s  youth  might 
hold  out  for  a few  days — not  more.  That  was  why 
he  had  been  allowed  to  bring  his  son  home — to  die. 
If  there  had  been  a ray,  a possibility  of  hope,  every 
resource  of  science  would  have  been  brought  to  bear 
on  saving  him,  there  in  that  casualty  clearing-station, 
itself  a large  hospital,  where  the  Squire  had  found 
him. 

All  the  scenes,  incidents,  persons  of  the  preceding 
days  were  flowing  in  one  continuous  medley  through 
the  Squire’s  mind — the  great  spectacle  of  the  back  of 
the  Army,  with  all  its  endless  movement,  its  crowded 
roads  and  marching  men,  the  hovering  aeroplanes, 
the  camouflaged  guns,  the  long  trains  of  artillery 
waggons  and  motor-lorries,  strange  faces  of  Kaffir 
boys  and  Chinese,  grey  lines  of  German  prisoners. 
And  then,  the  hospital.  Nothing  very  much  doing,  so 
he  was  told.  Yet  hour  after  hour  the  v/ounded  came 
in,  men  shattered  by  bomb  and  shell  and  rifle-bullet, 
in  the  daily  raids  that  went  on  throughout  the  line. 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 


296 

And  scarcely  a moan,  scarcely  a word  of  complaint! 

■ — men  giving  up  their  turn  with  the  surgeon  to  a 
comrade — ‘ Never  mind  me,  sir — he’s  worse  nor 
me  1 ’ — or  the  elder  cheering  the  younger — ‘ Stick  it, 
young’un — this’ll  get  you  to  Blighty  right  enough ! ’ — 
or,  in  the  midst  of  mortal  pain,  signing  a field  post- 
card for  the  people  at  home,  or  giving  a message  to 
a padre  for  mother  or  wife.  Like  some  monstrous 
hand,  the  grip  of  the  war  had  finally  closed  upon  the 
Squire’s  volatile,  recalcitrant  soul.  It  was  now  crush- 
ing the  moral  and  intellectual  energy  in  himself,  as 
it  had  crushed  the  physical  life  of  his  son.  For  it 
was  as  though  he  were  crouching  on  some  bare  space, 
naked  and  alone,  like  a wounded  man  left  behind  in 
a shell-hole  by  his  comrades’  advance.  He  was 
aware,  indeed,  of  a mysterious  current  of  spiritual 
force — patriotism,  or  religion,  or  both  in  one — 
which  seemed  to  be  the  support  of  other  men.  He 
had  seen  incredible,  superhuman  proofs  of  it  in 
those  few  hospital  days.  But  it  was  of  no  use  to 
him. 

There  was  only  one  dim  glimmer  in  his  mind — 
towards  which  at  intervals  he  seemed  to  be  reaching 
out.  A woman’s  face — a woman’s  voice — in  which 
there  seemed  to  be  some  offer  of  help  or  comfort. 
He  had  seen  her — she  was  somewhere  in  the  house. 
But  there  seemed  to  be  insuperable  barriers — closed 
doors,  impassable  spaces — between  himself  and  her. 
It  was  a nightmare,  partly  the  result  of  fatigue  and 
want  of  sleep. 

When  he  had  first  seen  his  son,  Desmond  w^as  un- 
conscious, and  the  end  was  hourly  expected.  He 
remembered  telegraphing  to  a famous  surgeon  at 
home  to  come  over;  he  recalled  the  faces  of  the  con- 
sultants round  Desmond’s  bed,  and  the  bald  man 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 


297 

with  the  keen  eyes,  who  had  brought  him  the  final 
verdict  : 

‘ Awfully  sorry ! — but  we  can  do  nothing ! He 
may  live  a little  while— and  he  has  been  begging 
and  praying  us  to  send  him  home.  Better  take  him 
— the  authorities  will  give  leave.  I’ll  see  to  that — 
it  can’t  do  much  harm.  The  morphia  will  keep  down 
the  pain — and  the  poor  lad  will  die  happy.’  And 
then  there  was  much  talk  of  plaster  bandages,  and 
some  new  mechanical  appliance  to  prevent  jolting — 
of  the  surgeon  going  home  on  leave  who  would  take 
charge  of  the  journey — of  the  nurses  to  be  sent — ■ 
and  other  matters  of  which  he  only  retained  a 
blurred  remembrance. 

The  journey  had  been  one  long  and  bitter  endur- 
ance. And  now  Desmond  was  here — his  son  Des- 
mond— lying  for  a few  days  in  that  white  bed — 
under  the  old  roof.  And  afterwards  a fresh  grave 
in  Fallerton  churchyard^ — a flood  of  letters  which 
would  be  burnt  unread — and  a world  without  Des- 
mond. 

Meanwhile,  in  a corner  of  the  hall,  Chicksands 
and  Pamela  were  sitting  together — hand  in  hand. 
From  the  moment  when  he  had  gone  down  to  Folke- 
stone to  meet  them,  and  had  seen  Pamela’s  piteous 
and  beautiful  face,  as  she  followed  the  stretcher  on 
which  Desmond  lay,  across  the  landing-stage  of  the 
boat,  Chicksands’  mind  had  been  suddenly  clear.  No 
words,  indeed,  except  about  the  journey  and  Des- 
mond had  passed  between  them.  But  she  had  seen 
in  his  dark  eyes  a sweetness,  a passion  of  protection 
and  help  which  had  thawed  all  the  ice  in  her  heart, 
and  freed  the  waters  of  life.  She  was  ashamed  of 
herself,  but  only  for  a little  while  I For  in  Des- 
mond’s presence  all  that  concerned  herself  passed 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 


298 

clean  out  of  sight  and  mind.  It  was  not  till  she 
saw  Elizabeth  that  remorse  lifted  its  head  again; 
and  whatever  was  delicate  and  sensitive  in  the  girl’s 
nature  revived,  like  scorched  grass  after  rain. 

Since  the  hurried,  miserable  meal,  in  which  Eliza- 
beth had  watched  over  them  all,  Pamela  had  fol- 
lowed Elizabeth  about,  humbly  trying  to  help  her  in 
the  various  household  tasks.  Then  when  at  last 
Elizabeth  had  gone  off  to  telephone  some  final 
orders  to  Captain  Dell  at  Fallerton  for  the  morning 
Pamela  and  Arthur  were  left  alone. 

He  came  over  to  where  she  sat,  and  drew  a chair 
beside  her. 

‘Poor  child!’  he  said,  under  his  breath — ‘poor 
child!’ 

She  lifted  her  eyes,  swimming  in  tears. 

‘ Isn’t  it  marvellous,  how  she’s  thought  of  every- 
thing— done  everything?  ’ 

Elizabeth  had  not  been  in  his  mind,  but  he  under- 
stood the  amende  offered  and  was  deeply  touched. 

‘Yes,  she’s  a wonderful  creature.  Let  her  care 
for  you,  Pamela,  dear  Pamela!  ’ 

He  lifted  her  hand  to  his  lips,  and  put  his  arm 
round  her.  She  leant  against  him,  and  he  gently 
kissed  her  cheek.  So  Love  came  to  them,  but  in  its 
most  tragic  dress,  veiled  and  dumb,  with  haggard 
eyes  of  grief. 

Then  Pamela  tried  to  tell  him  all  that  she  herself 
had  understood  of  the  gallant  deed,  the  bit  of  ‘ ob- 
servation work  ’ in  the  course  of  which  Desmond 
had  received  his  wound.  He  had  gone  out  with  an- 
other subaltern,  a sergeant,  and  a telephonist,  creep- 
ing by  night  over  No  Man’s  Land  to  a large  shell- 
hole,  close  upon  an  old  crater  where  a German  out- 
post of  some  thirty  men  had  found  shelter.  They 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 


299 


had  remained  there  for  forty-eight  hours — unre- 
lieved— listening  and  telephoning.  Then  having 
given  all  necessary  information  to  the  artillery 
Headquarters  which  had  sent  them  out,  they  started 
on  the  return  journey.  But  they  were  seen  and  fired 
on.  Desmond  might  have  escaped  but  for  his  de- 
termined endeavours  to  bring  in  the  Sergeant,  who 
was  the  first  of  them  to  fall.  A German  sniper  hid- 
den in  a fragment  of  ruin  caught  the  boy  just  out- 
side the  British  line ; he  fell  actually  upon  the  trench. 

Desmond  had  been  the  leader  all  through,  said 
Pamela;  his  Colonel  said  he  was  ‘the  pluckiest, 
dearest  fellow  ’ — he  failed  ‘ in  nothing  you  ever 
asked  him  for.’ 

Just  such  a story  as  comes  home,  night  after  night, 
and  week  after  week,  from  the  fighting  line  ! Noth- 
ing remarkable  in  it,  except,  perhaps,  the  personal 
quality  of  the  boy  who  had  sacrificed  his  life.  Arthur 
Chicksands,  with  three  years  of  the  war  behind  him, 
felt  that  he  knew  it  by  heart — could  have  repeated 
it,  almost  in  his  sleep,  and  each  time  with  a different 
name. 

‘ The  other  lieutenant  who  was  with  him,’  said 
Pamela,  ‘ told  us  he  was  in  splendid  spirits  the  day 
before;  and  then  at  night,  just  before  they  started, 
Desmond  was  very  quiet,  and  they  said  to  each  other 
that  whatever  happened  that  night  they  never  ex- 
pected to  see  England  again;  and  each  promised  the 
other  that  the  one  who  survived,  if  either  did,  would 
take  messages  home.  Desmond  told  him  he  was  to 
tell  me,  if  he  was  killed — that  he’d  “ had  a splendid 
life  ” — and  lived  it  “all  out’*  “ She’s  not  to  think 
of  it  as  cut  short.  I’ve  had  it  all.  One  lives  here  a 
year  in  a day.”  And  he’d  only  been  seven  weeks  at 
the  front!  He  said  it  was  the  things  he’d  seen — not 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 


300 

the  horrible  things — but  the  glorious  things  that 
made  him  feel  like  that.  Now  he  did  believe  there 
was  a God — and  I must  believe  it  too.’ 

The  tears  ran  down  her  face.  Arthur  held  the 
quivering  hands  close  in  his;  and  through  his 
soldier’s  mind,  alive  with  the  latest  and  innermost 
knowledge  of  the  war,  there  flashed  a terrible  pre- 
vision of  the  weeks  to  come,  the  weeks  of  the  great 
offensive,  the  storm  of  which  might  break  any  day — 
was  certain.  Indeed,  to  break  soon,  and  would  leave 
behind  it,  trampled  like  leaves  into  a mire  of  blood, 
thousands  of  lives  like  Desmond’s — Britain’s  best 
and  rarest. 

An  hour  later  the  hall  was  deserted,  except  for 
Elizabeth,  who,  after  seeing  Pamela  to  bed,  came 
down  to  write  some  household  letters  by  the  only 
fire.  Presently  the  surgeon  who  was  sitting  up  with 
Desmond  appeared,  looking  worried.  His  counte- 
nance brightened  at  sight  of  Elizabeth,  with  whom 
he  had  already  had  much  practical  consultation. 

‘ Could  you  persuade  Mr.  Mannering  to  go  to 
bed?; 

Elizabeth  rose  with  some  hesitation  and  followed 
him  Into  the  library.  The  great  room,  once  so  fa- 
miliar, now  so  strange,  the  nurses  in  their  w'hite 
uniforms,  moving  silently,  one  standing  by  the  bed, 
watch  in  hand — Major  Mannering  on  the  farther 
side,  motionless — the  smell  of  antiseptics,  the  table 
by  the  bed  with  all  Its  paraphernalia  of  bandages, 
cups,  glasses,  medicine  bottles — the  stillness  of 
brooding  death  which  held  it  all — seemed  to  dash 
from  her  any  last,  blind,  unreasonable  hope  that  she 
might  have  cherished. 

The  Squire  standing  by  the  fire,  w’here  he  had 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 


301 


been  opposing  a silent  but  impatient  opposition  to 
the  attempt  of  doctor  and  nurses  to  make  him  take 
some  rest,  saw  Elizabeth  enter.  His  eyes  clung  to 
her  as  she  approached  him.  So  she  was  near  him — 
and  he  was  not  cut  off  from  her. 

Then  the  surgeon  watched  with  astonishment  the 
sudden  docility  of  a man  who  had  already  seemed 
to  him  one  of  the  most  unmanageable  of  persons. 
What  spell  had  this  woman  exercised?  At  any 
rate,  after  a few  whispered  words  from  her,  the 
Squire  bowed  his  white  head  and  followed  her  out 
of  the  room. 

In  the  hall  Elizabeth  offered  him  a candle,  and 
begged  him  to  go  to  bed.  He  shook  his  head,  and 
pointed  to  a chair  by  the  dying  fire. 

‘ That  will  do.  Then  I shall  hear ’ 

He  threw  himself  into  it.  She  brought  him.  a rug, 
for  the  night  was  chilly,  and  he  submitted. 

Then  she  was  going  away,  for  it  was  past  mid- 
night, but  something  in  his  fixed  look,  his  dull  suffer- 
ing, checked  her.  She  took  an  old  stool  and  sat 
down  near  him.  Neither  spoke,  but  his  eyes  gradu- 
ally turned  to  hers,  and  a strange  communion  arose 
between  them.  Though  there  were  no  words,  he 
seemed  to  be  saying  to  her — ‘ My  boy ! — my  boy ! ’ — 
over  and  over  again — and  then — ‘ Stay  there ! — for 
God’s  sake,  stay ! ’ 

And  she  stayed.  The  failing  lamp  showed  her 
upturned  face,  with  its  silent  intensity  of  pity,  her 
hands  clasped  round  her  knees,  and  the  brightness 
of  her  hair.  The  long  minutes  passed.  Then  sud- 
denly the  Squire’s  eyelids  fell,  and  he  slept  the  sleep 
of  a man  physically  and  mentally  undone. 

Aubrey  Mannering  sat  by  his  brother  all  night. 
With  the  first  dawn  Desmond  awoke,  and  there 


302 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 


was  an  awful  Interval  of  pain.  But  a fresh  morphia 
injection  eased  it,  and  Aubrey  presently  saw  a smile 
— a look  of  the  old  Desmond.  The  nurse  washed 
the  boy’s  hands  and  face,  brought  him  a cup  of  tea, 
took  pulse  and  temperature. 

‘ He’s  no  worse,’  she  said  in  a whisper  to  Aubrey, 
as  she  passed  him. 

Aubrey  went  up  to  the  bed. 

‘ Aubrey,  old  chap ! ’ said  the  boy,  and  smiled  at 
him.  Then — ‘ It’s  daylight.  Can’t  I look  out?  ’ 

The  nurse  and  Mannering  wheeled  his  bed  to  the 
window,  which  opened  to  the  ground.  A white  frost 
was  on  the  grass,  and  there  was  a clear  sky  through 
which  the  sunrise  was  fast  mounting.  Along  an 
eastern  wood  ran  a fiery  rose  of  dawn,  the  fine  leaf- 
work  of  the  beeches  showing  sharply  upon  It.  There 
was  a thrush  singing,  and  a robin  came  close  to  the 
window,  hopped  on  the  ledge,  and  looked  In. 

‘Ripping!’  said  Desmond  softly.  ‘There  were 
jolly  mornings  In  France  too.’  Then  his  clear  brow 
contracted.  Aubrey  stooped  to  him. 

‘ Any  news?  ’ said  the  blanched  lips. 

‘ None  yet,  old  man.  We  shan’t  get  the  papers 
till  eight.’ 

‘ What’s  the  date  ? ’ 

‘March  i8th.’ 

Desmond  gave  a long  sigh. 

‘ I would  have  liked  to  be  In  it!  ’ 

‘ In  the  big  battle?  ’ Aubrey’s  lip  trembled.  ‘ You 
have  done  your  bit,  old  man.’ 

‘ But  how  is  It  going  to  end?  ’ said  the  boy,  moving 
his  head  restlessly.  ‘Shall  we  win? — or  they?  I 
shall  live  as  long  as  ever  I can — just  to  know.  I feel 
quite  jolly  now — Isn’t  it  strange? — and  yet  I made 
the  doctors  tell  me ’ 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 


303 


He  turned  a bright  look  on  his  brother,  and  his 
voice  grew  stronger.  ‘ I had  such  a queer  dream  last 
night,  Aubrey, — about  you — and  that  friend  of  yours 
— do  you  remember? — you  used  to  bring  him  down 
— to  stay  here — when  Pam  and  I were  little — 
Freddy  Vivian ’ 

The  boy  looking  out  into  the  woods  and  the  morn- 
ing did  not  see  the  change — the  spasm — in  his 
brother’s  face.  He  continued — ‘We  kids  liked  him 
awfully.  Well,  I saw  him!  I actually  did.  He 
stood  there — by  you.  He  was  talking  a lot- — I 
didn’t  understand — ^but ’ 

A sudden  movement.  Aubrey  fell  on  his  knees 
beside  the  bed.  His  deep  haggard  eyes  stared  at 
his  brother.  There  was  in  them  an  anguish,  an 
eagerness,  scarcely  human. 

‘ Desmond! — can’t  you  remember?’ 

The  words  were  just  breathed- — panted. 

Desmond,  whose  eyes  had  closed  again,  smiled 
faintly. 

‘ Why,  of  course  I can’t  remember.  He  had  his 
hand  on  your  shoulder.  I just  thought  he  was  cheer- 
ing you  up — about  something.’ 

‘ Desmond ! — it  was  I that  killed  him — I could 
have  saved  him ! ’ 

The  boy  opened  his  eyes.  His  startled  look  ex- 
pressed the  question  he  had  not  strength  to  put. 

Aubrey  bent  over  the  bed,  speaking  hurriedly — 
under  possession.  ‘ It  was  at  Neuve  Chapelle.  I 
had  gone  back  for  help — he  and  ten  or  twelve  others 
who  had  moved  on  too  fast  were  waiting  in  a bit  of 
shelter  till  I could  get  some  more  men  from  the 
Colonel.  The  Germans  were  coming  on  thick.  And 
I went  back.  There  was  a barrage  on — and  on 
the  way — I shirked — my  nerve  went.  I sat  down 


304 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 


for  twenty  minutes  by  my  watch — I hid — in  a shell- 
hole.  Then  I went  to  the  Colonel,  and  he  gave  me 
the  men.  And  when  we  got  up  to  the  post,  I was 
just  a quarter  of  an  hour  too  late.  Vivian  was  lying 
there  dead — and  the  others  had  been  mopped  up — 
prisoners — ^by  a German  bombing  party.  It  was  I 
who  killed  Vivian.  No  one  knows.’ 

Aubrey’s  eyes  searched  those  of  the  boy. 

The  next  moment  Mannering  was  torn  with  poig- 
nant remorse  that,  under  the  sudden  shock  of  that 
name,  he  should  have  spoken  at  last — after  three 
years — to  this  dying  lad.  Crime  added  to  crime ! 

‘ Don’t  think  of  it  any  more,  Desmond,’  he  said 
hurriedly,  raising  himself  and  laying  his  hand  on  his 
brother’s.  ‘ I oughtn’t  to  have  told  you.’ 

But  Desmond  showed  no  answering  agitation. 

‘ I did  see  him ! ’ he  whispered.  ‘ He  stood 
there — ’ His  eyes  turned  towards  the  window. 
He  seemed  to  be  trying  to  remember — but  soon  gave 
up  the  effort.  ‘ Poor  old  Aubrey ! ’ His  feeble  hand 
gave  a faint  pressure  to  his  brother’s.  ‘ Why,  it 
wasn’t  you,  old  fellow ! — it  was  your  body.’ 

Aubrey  could  not  reply.  He  hid  his  face  in  his 
hands.  The  effort  of  his  own  words  had  shaken  him 
from  top  to  toe.  To  no  human  being  had  he  ever 
breathed  what  he  had  just  told  his  young  brother. 
Life  seemed  broken — disorganized. 

Desmond  was  apparently  watching  the  passage  of 
a flock  of  white  south-westerly  clouds  across  the 
morning  sky.  But  his  brain  was  working,  and  he 
said  presently — 

‘ After  I was  struck,  I hated  my  body.  I’d — I'd 
like  to  commit  my  spirit  to  God — but  not  my  body ! ' 

Then  again — very  faintly — 

‘ It  was  only  your  body,  Aubrey — not  your  soul. 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 


305 

Poor  old  Aubrey ! ’ Then  he  dozed  off  again,  with 
intervals  of  pain. 

At  eight  o’clock  Pamela  came  in — a vision  of  girl- 
ish beauty  in  spite  of  watching  and  tears,  in  her 
white  dressing-govm,  the  masses  of  her  hair  loosely 
tied. 

She  sat  down  by  him,  and  the  nurse  allowed  her  to 
give  him  milk  and  brandy.  Paralysis  in  the  lower 
limbs  was  increasing,  but  the  brain  was  clear,  and 
the  suffering  less. 

He  smiled  at  her,  after  the  painful  swallowing 
was  over. 

‘ Why ! — -you’re  so  like  mother,  Pamela ! ’ 

He  was  thinking  of  the  picture  in  the  ‘ den.’  She 
raised  his  hand,  and  kissed  it — determined  to  be 
brave,  not  to  break  down. 

‘ Where’s  Broomie  ? ’ he  whispered. 

‘ She’d  like  to  come  and  see  you,  Dezzy.  Dezzy, 
darling! — -I  was  all  wrong.  She’s  been  so  good — 
good  to  father — good  to  all  of  us.’ 

The  boy’s  eyes  shone. 

‘ I thought  sol’  he  said  triumphantly.  * Is  she 
up?  ’ 

‘ Long  ago.  Shall  I tel!  her?  I’ll  ask  Nurse.’ 

And  in  a few  more  minutes  Elizabeth  was  there. 

Desmond  had  been  raised  a little  on  his  pillows, 
and  flushed  at  sight  of  her.  Timidly,  he  moved  his 
hand,  and  she  laid  hers  on  it.  Then,  stirred  by  an 
impulse  that  seemed  outside  her  will,  she  stooped 
over  him,  and  kissed  his  forehead. 

‘ That  was  nice  1 ’ he  murmured,  smiling,  and  lay 
for  a little  with  his  eyes  shut.  When  he  opened 
them  again,  he  said — 

‘ May  I call  you  Elizabeth?  ’ 

Elizabeth’s  tender  look  and  gesture  answered.  He 


3o6  ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 

gazed  at  her  in  silence,  gathering  strength  for  some 
effort  that  was  evidently  on  his  mind. 

‘ Father  minds  awfully,’  he  said  at  last,  his  look 
clouding.  ‘ And  there’s  no  one — to — to  cheer  him 

‘ He  loves  you  so,’  said  Elizabeth,  with  difficulty, 

‘ he  always  has  loved  you  so.’ 

The  furrow  on  his  brow  grew  a little  deeper. 

‘ But  that  doesn’t  matter  now — nothing  matters 
but ’ 

After  a minute  he  resumed,  in  a rather  stronger  - 
voice — ‘ Tell  me  about  the  woods — and  the  ash 
trees.  I did  laugh  over  that — old  Hull  telling  you 
there  were  none — and  you — ^Why,  I could  have 
shown  him  scores.’ 

She  told  him  all  the  story  of  the  w’oods,  holding 
his  hot  hand  in  her  cool  ones,  damping  his  brow  with 
the  eau-de-cologne  the  nurses  gave  her,  and  smiling 
at  him.  Her  voice  soothed  him.  It  was  so  clear 
and  yet  soft,  like  a song, — not  a song  of  romance  or 
passion,  but  like  the  cheerful  crooning  songs  that 
mothers  sing.  And  her  face  reminded  him  even 
more  of  his  mother  than  Pamela’s.  She  was  not 
the  least  like  his  mother,  but  there  was  something 
in  her  expression  that  first  youth  cannot  have — som.e- 
thing  comforting,  profound,  sustaining. 

He  wanted  her  always  to  sit  there.  But  his  mind 
wandered  from  what  she  was  saying  after  a little, 
and  returned  to  his  father. 

‘Is  father  there?’  he  asked,  trying  to  turn  his 
head,  and  failing. 

‘ Not  yet.’ 

‘ Poor  father ! Elizabeth ! ’ he  spoke  the  name 
with  a boyish  shyness. 

‘ Yesl  ’ She  stooped  over  him. 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 


307 


‘ You  won’t  go  away?  ’ 

Elizabeth  hesitated  a moment,  and  he  looked  dis- 
tressed. 

‘ From  Mannering,  I mean.  Do  stay,  Broomie ! ’ — 
the  name  slipped  out,  and  in  his  weakness  he  did  not 
notice  it — ‘ Pamela  knows — that  she  was  horrid ! ’ 

‘ Dear  Desmond,  I will  do  everything  I can  for 
Pamela.’ 

‘ And  for  father?  ’ 

‘ Yes,  indeed — I v/ill  be  all  the  help  I can,’  re- 
peated Elizabeth. 

Desmond  relapsed  into  silence  and  apparent  sleep. 
But  Elizabeth’s  heart  smote  her.  She  felt  she  had 
not  satisfied  him. 

But  before  long  by  the  mere  natural  force  of  hor 
personality,  she  seemed  to  be  the  leading  spirit  in 
the  sick-room.  Only  she  could  lead  or  influence  the 
Squire,  whose  state  of  sullen  despair  terrified  the 
household.  The  nurses  and  doctors  depended  on 
her  for  all  those  lesser  aids  that  intelligence  and  love 
can  bring  to  hospital  service.  The  servants  of  the 
house  would  have  worked  all  night  and  all  day  for 
her  and  Mr.  Desmond.  Yet  all  this  was  scarcely 
seen — it  was  only  felt — ‘ a life,  a pre,sence  like  the 
air.’  Most  of  us  have  known  the  same  experience — 
how,  when  human  beings  come  to  the  testing,  the 
values  of  a house  change,  and  how  men  and  women, 
who  have  been  in  it  as  those  who  serve,  become 
naturally  and  noiselessly  its  rulers,  and  those  who 
once  ruled,  their  dependents.  It  was  so  at  Manner- 
ing. A tender,  unconscious  sovereignty  established- 
itself;  and  both  the  weak  and  the  strong  grouped 
themselves  round  It. 

Especially  did  Elizabeth  seem  to  understand  the 


308  ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 

tragic  fact  that  as  death  drew  nearer  the  boy  strug- 
gled more  painfully  to  live,  that  he  might  know 
what  was  happening  on  the  battlefield.  He  would 
have  the  telegrams  read  to  him  night  and  morning. 
And  he  would  lie  brooding  over  them  for  long  after- 
wards. The  Rector  came  to  see  him,  and  Desmond 
accepted  gratefully  his  readings  and  his  prayers. 
But  they  were  scarcely  done  before  he  would  turn 
to  Elizabeth,  and  his  eager  feverish  look  would  send 
her  to  the  telephone  to  ask  Arthur  Chicksands  at 
the  War  Office  if  Haig’s  mid-day  telegram  was  in — 
or  any  fresh  news. 

On  the  20th  of  March,  Chicksands,  who  had  been 
obliged  to  go  back  to  his  work,  came  down  again 
for  the  night.  Desmond  lay  waiting  for  him,  and 
Arthur  saw  at  once  that  death  was  much  nearer. 
But  the  boy  had  himself  insisted  on  strychnine  and 
morphia  before  the  visit,  and  talked  a great  deal. 

The  military  news,  however,  that  Chicksands 
brought  him  disappointed  him  greatly. 

‘Not  yet?* — he  said  miserably — ‘not  yetf* — 
breathing  his  life  into  the  words,  when  Chicksands 
read  him  a letter  from  a staff  officer  in  the  Intelli- 
gence Department  describing  the  enormous  German 
preparations  for  the  offensive,  but  expressing  the 
view — ‘ It  may  be  some  days  more  before  they 
risk  it ! ’ 

‘ I shall  be  gone  before  they  begin!  ’ he  said,  and 
lay  sombre  and  frowning  on  his  pillows,  till  Chick- 
sands had  beguiled  him  by  some  letters  from  men 
in  Desmond’s  own  division  which  he  had  taken  spe- 
cial trouble  to  collect  for  him. 

And  when  the  boy’s  mood  and  look  were  calmer, 
Arthur  bent  over  him  and  gave  him,  with  a voice 
that  must  shake,  the  news  of  his  Military  Cross — 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 


30^ 

for  ‘ brilliant  leadership  and  conspicuous  courage  ’ 
in  the  bit  of  ‘ observation  work  ’ that  had  cost  him 
his  life. 

Desmond  listened  with  utter  incredulity  and  as- 
tonishment. 

‘ It’s  not  me ! ’ — he  protested  faintly — ‘ it’s  a mis- 
take ! ’ 

Chicksands  produced  the  General’s  letter— -the 
Cross  itself.  Desmond  looked  at  it  with  unwilling 
eyes. 

‘ I call  it  silly — perfectly  silly ! Why,  there  were 
fellows  that  deserved  it  ten  times  more  than  I did ! ’ 

And  he  asked  that  it  should  be  put  away,  and  did 
not  speak  of  it  again. 

In  all  his  talk  with  him  that  night,  the  elder  offi- 
cer was  tragically  struck  by  the  boy’s  growth  in 
intelligence.  Just  as  death  was  claiming  it,  the  young 
mind  had  broadened  and  deepened — had  become  the 
mind  of  a man.  And  in  the  vigil  which  he  kept  dur- 
ing part  of  that  night  with  Martin,  the  able  young 
surgeon  who  had  brought  Desmond  home,  and  was 
spending  his  own  hard-earned  leave  in  easing  the 
boy’s  death,  Chicksands  found  that  Martin’s  impres- 
sion was  the  same  as  his  own. 

‘ It’s  wonderful  how  he’s  grown  and  thought  since 
he’s  been  out  there.  But  do  we  ever  consider — do 
we  ever  realize — enough ! — what  a marvellous  thing 
it  is  that  young  men — boys — like  Desmond — should 
be  able  to  live,  day  after  day,  face  to  face  with  death 
— consciously  and  voluntarily — and  get  quite  used  to 
it?  Which  of  us  before  the  war  had  ever  been  in 
real  physical  danger — danger  of  violent  death? — 
and  that  not  for  a few  minutes — but  for  days,  hours, 
weeks?  It  seems  to  make  men  over  again — to  create 
a new  type — ^by  the  hundred  thousand.  And  to  some 


310 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 


men  it  is  an  extraordinary  intoxication — this  con- 
scious and  deliberate  acceptance — defiance! — of 
death — for  a cause — for  their  country.  It  sets  them 
free  from  themselves.  It  matures  them,  all  in  a 
moment — as  though  the  bud  and  the  flower  came 
together.  Oh,  of  course,  there  are  those  it  brutal- 
izes— and  there  are  those  it  stuns.  But  Desmond 
was  one  of  the  chosen.’ 

The  night  passed.  The  Squire  came  in  after  mid- 
night, and  took  his  place  by  the  bed. 

Desmond  was  then  restless  and  suffering,  and  the 
nurse  in  charge  whispered  to  the  Squire  that  the 
pulse  was  growing  weaker.  But  the  boy  opened  his 
eyes  on  his  father,  and  tried  to  smile.  The  Squire 
sat  bowed  and  bent  beside  him,  and  nurses  and  doc- 
tors withdrew  from  them  a little — out  of  sight  and 
hearing. 

‘ Desmond ! ’ said  the  Squire  in  a low  voice. 

‘Yes.’ 

‘Is  there  anything  I could  do — to  please  you?’ 
It  was  a humble  and  a piteous  prayer.  Desmond’s 
eyes  travelled  over  his  father’s  face. 

‘ Only — love  me  I ’ he  said,  with  difficulty.  The 
Squire  grew  very  white.  Kneeling  down  he  kissed 
his  son — for  the  first  time  since  Desmond  was  a 
child. 

Desmond’s  beautiful  mouth  smiled  a little. 

‘ Thank  you,’  he  said,  so  feebly  that  it  could 
scarcely  be  heard.  When  the  light  began  to  come 
in  he  moved  impatiently,  asking  for  the  newspapers. 
Elizabeth  told  him  that  old  Perley  had  gone  to  meet 
them  at  the  morning  train  at  Fallerton,  and  would  be 
out  with  them  at  the  earliest  possible  moment. 

But  when  they  came  the  boy  turned  almost  angrily 
from  them.  ‘ The  Shipping  Problem — Attacks  on 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 


311 

British  Ports — Raids  on  the  French  Front — Bom- 
bardment of  German  Towns — Curfew  Regulations  ’ 
— ^Pamela’s  faltering  voice  read  out  the  headings. 

‘ Oh,  what  rot!  ’ he  said  wearily — ‘ what  rot!  ’ 

After  that  his  strength  ebbed  visibly  through  the 
morning. 

Chicksands,  who  must  return  to  town  in  the  after- 
noon, sat  with  him,  Pamela  and  Elizabeth  opposite — 
Alice  and  Margaret  not  far  away.  The  two  doctors 
watched  their  patient,  and  Martin  whispered  to 
Aubrey  Mannering,  who  had  come  down  by  a night 
train,  that  the  struggle  for  life  could  not  last  much 
longer. 

Presently  about  one  o’clock,  Aubrey,  who  had  been 
called  out  of  the  room,  came  back  and  whispered 
something  to  Chicksands,  who  at  once  went  away. 
Elizabeth,  looking  up,  saw  agitation  and  expectancy 
in  the  Major’s  look.  But  he  said  nothing. 

In  a few  minutes  Chicksands  reappeared.  He 
went  straight  to  Desmond,  and  knelt  down  by  him. 

‘ Desmond!  ’ he  said  in  a clear  voice,  ‘ the  offen- 
sive’s begun.  The  Chief  in  my  room  at  the  War 
Office  has  just  been  telephoning  me.  It  began  at 
eight  this  morning — on  a front  of  fifty  miles.  Can 
you  hear  me  ? ’ The  boy  opened  his  eyes — -straining 
them  on  Arthur. 

‘ It’s  begun ! ’ he  said  eagerly-—*  begun ! What 
have  they  done  ? ’ 

‘ The  bombardment  opened  at  dawn — about  five 
— the  German  infantry  attacked  about  eight.  It’s 
been  going  on  the  whole  morning — and  down  the 
whole  front  from  Arras  to  the  Scarpe.’ 

‘ And  we’ve  held  ? — we’ve  held?  ^ 

‘ So  far  magnificently.  Our  outpost  troops  have 
been  withdrawn  to  the  battle-zone — that’s  all.  The 


312  ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 

line  has  held  everywhere.  The  Germans  have  lost 
heavily.’ 

‘ Outpost  troops ! ’ whispered  the  boy — ‘ why, 
that’s  nothing  I We  always  expected — to  lose  the 
first  line.  Good  old  Army ! ’ 

A pause,  and  then — so  faintly  breathed  as  to  be 
scarcely  audible,  and  yet  in  ecstasy — ‘England! — 
Englpdl’ 

His  joy  was  wonderful — heart-breaking — while 
all  those  around  him  wept. 

He  lay  murmuring  to  himself  a little  while,  his 
hand  in  Pamela’s.  Then  for  a last  time  he  looked 
at  his  father,  but  was  now  too  weak  to  speak.  His 
eyes,  intently  fixed  on  the  Squire,  kept  their  marvel- 
lous brightness — no  one  knew  how  long.  Then 
gently,  as  though  an  unseen  hand  put  out  a light,  the 
brilliance  died  away — the  lids  fell — and  with  a few 
breaths  Desmond’s  young  life  was  past. 


CHAPTER  XVII 


IT  was  three  weeks  after  Desmond’s  death.  Pam- 
ela was  sitting  in  the  ‘ den  ’ writing  a letter  t(S 
Arthur  Chicksands  at  Versailles.  The  first  on- 
slaught on  Amiens  was  over.  The  struggle  between 
Bethune  and  Ypres  was  in  full  swing. 

‘ Dearest — This  house  is  so  strange — the  world 
is  so  strange  I Oh,  if  I hadn’t  my  work  to  do ! — how 
could  one  bear  it?  It  seems  wrong  and  hateful 
even,  to  let  one’s  mind  dwell  on  the  wonderful,  won- 
derful thing,  that  you  love  me  1 The  British  Army 
retreating — retreating — after  these  glorious  years — 
that  is  what  burns  into  me  hour  after  hour ! Thank 
God  Desmond  didn’t  know!  And  if  I feel  like 
this,  who  am  just  an  ignorant,  inexperienced  girl, 
what  must  it  be  for  you  who  are  working  there,  at 
the  very  centre,  the  news  streaming  in  on  you  all 
the  time? — you  who  know  how  much  there  is  to 
fear — but  also  how  much  there  is  to  be  certain  of — 
to  be  confident  of — that  we  can’t  know.  Our  splen- 
did, splendid  men  1 Every  day  I watch  for  the 
names  I know  in  the  death  list — and  some  of  them 
seem  to  be  always  there.  The  boy — the  other  sub- 
lieutenant— who  was  with  Desmond  when  he  was 
wounded,  was  in  the  list  yesterday.  Forest’s  boy 
is  badly  wounded.  The  old  gardener  has  lost  an- 
other son.  Perley’s  boy  is  “ missing,”  and  so  is  the 
poor  Pennington  boy.  They  are  heroic — the  Pen- 
ningtons— but  whenever  I see  them  I want  to 

313 


314 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 


cry.  . . . Oh,  I can’t  write  this  any  more.  I have 
been  writing  letters  of  sympathy  all  day. 

‘ Dearest,  you  would  be  astonished  if  you  could 
see  me  at  this  moment.  I am  to-day  a full  blov/n 
group  leader.  Do  you  know  what  that  means?  I 
have  had  a long  round  among  some  of  our  farms 
to-day — bargaining  with  the  farmers  for  the  land- 
girls  in  my  group,  and  looking  after  their  billets. 
Yesterday  I spent  half  the  day  in  “docking”  with 
six  or  eight  village  women  to  give  them  a “ send 
off.”  I don’t  believe  you  know  what  docking  means. 
It  is  pretty  hard  work,  and  at  night  I have  a night- 
mare— of  roots  that  never  come  to  an  end,  and 
won’t  pull  out ! 

‘ You  were  quite  right — it  is  my  work.  I was 
born  in  the  country.  I know  and  love  it.  The  farm- 
ers are  very  nice  to  me.  They  see  I don’t  try  to 
boss  them  as  the  Squire’s  daughter — that  I’m  just 
working  as  they  are.  And  I can  say  a good  deal 
to  them  about  the  war,  because  of  Desmond.  They 
all  knew  him  and  loved  him.  Some  of  them  tell  me 
stories  about  his  pluck  out  hunting  as  a little  chap, 
and  though  he  had  been  such  a short  time  out  in 
France  he  had  written  to  two  or  three  of  them  about 
their  sons  in  the  Brookshires.  He  had  a heavenly 
disposition — oh,  I wish  I had! 

‘ At  the  present  moment  I am  in  knee-breeches, 
gaiters,  and  tunic,  and  I have  just  come  in.  Six 
o’clock  to  five,  please  sir,  with  half-an-hour  for 
breakfast  and  an  hour  for  dinner  (I  eat  it  out  of 
a red  handkerchief  under  a hedge).  It  was  wet  and 
nasty,  and  I am  pretty  tired.  But  one  does  not  want 
to  stop — because  when  one  stops  one  begins  to  think. 
And  my  thoughts,  except  for  that  shining  centre 
where  you  are,  are  so  dark  and  full  of  sorrow.  I 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 


315 


miss  Desmond  every  hour,  and  some  great  monstrous 
demon  seems  to  be  clutching  at  me — at  you — at 
England — everything  one  loves  and  would  die  for 
— all  day  long.  But  don’t  imagine  that  I ever  doubt 
for  one  moment.  Not  I — 

For  right  is  right,  since  God  is  God, 

And  right  the  day  must  win; 

To  doubt  would  be  disloyalty, 

To  falter  would  be  sin. 


I know  that’s  not  good  poetry.  But  I just  love 
it — because  it’s  plain  and  commonplace,  and  ex- 
presses just  what  ordinary  people  feel  and  think. 

‘ Oh,  why  was  I such  a fool  about  Elizabeth ! 
Now  that  you  are  at  a safe  distance — and  of  course 
on  the  understanding  that  you  never,  never  say  a 
word  to  me  about  it — I positively  will  and  must  con- 
fess that  I was  jealous  of  her  about  you — yes,  about 
you,  Arthur — because  you  talked  to  her  about  Greek 
— and  about  ash  for  aeroplanes — and  I couldn’t  talk 
about  them.  There’s  a nice  nature  for  you!  Hadn’t 
you  better  get  rid  of  me  while  you  can?  But  the 
thing  that  torments  me  is  that  I can  never  have  it 
quite  out  with  Desmond.  I told  him  lies,  simply. 
I didn’t  know  they  were  lies,  I suppose;  but  I was 
too  angry  and  too  unjust  to  care  whether  they 
were  or  not.  On  the  journey  from  France  I said  a 
few  little  words  to  him — just  enough,  thank  Heaven  1 
He  was  so  sweet  to  her  in  those  last  days — and  she 
to  him.  You  know  one  side  of  her  is  the  managing 
woman — and  the  other  (I’ve  only  found  it  out  since 
Desmond’s  death) — well,  she  seems  to  be  just  ask- 
ing you  to  creep  under  her  wings  and  be  mothered ! 
She  mothered  him,  and  she  has  mothered  me  since 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 


316 

he  shut  his  dear  eyes  for  ever.  Oh,  why  won’t  she 
mother  us  all — for  good  and  all ! — father  first  and 
foremost. 

‘ I told  you  something  about  him  last  time  I wrote, 
but  there  is  a great  deal  more  to  tell.  The  horrible 
thing  is  that  he  seems  not  to  care  any  more  for  any 
of  his  old  hobbies.  He  sits  there  in  the  library  day 
after  day,  or  walks  about  it  for  hours  and  hours, 
without  ever  opening  a book  or  looking  at  a thing. 
Or  else  he  walks  about  the  woods — sometimes  quite 
late  at  night.  Forest  believes  he  sleeps  very  little. 
I told  you  he  never  came  to  Desmond’s  funeral.  All 
business  he  hands  over  to  Elizabeth,  and  what  she 
asks  him  he  generally  does.  But  we  all  have  vague, 
black  fears  about  him.  I know  Elizabeth  has.  Yet 
she  is  quite  clear  she  can’t  stay  here  much  longer. 
Dear  Arthur,  I don’t  know  exactly  what  happened, 
but  I think  father  asked  her  to  marry  him,  and  she 
said  no.  And  I am  tolerably  sure  that  I counted  for 
a good  deal  in  it — horrid  wretch  that  I am ! — that 
she  thought  it  would  make  me  unhappy. 

‘ Well,  I am  properly  punished.  For  if  or  when 
she  goes  away — and  you  and  I are  married — if  there 
is  to  be  anv  marrying  any  more  in  this  awful  world ! 
— what  will  become  of  my  father?  He  has  been  a 
terrifying  mystery  to  me  all  my  life.  Now  it  is  not 
that  any  longer.  I know  at  least  that  he  worshipped 
Desmond.  But  I know  also  that  I mean  nothing  to 
him.  I don’t  honestly  think  it  was  much  my  fault — 
and  it  can’t  be  helped.  And  nobody  else  in  the  family 
matters.  The  only  person  who  does  matter  is  Eliza- 
beth. And  I quite  see  that  she  can’t  stay  here 
indefinitely.  She  told  me  she  promised  Desmond 
she  would  stay  as  long  as  she  could.  Just  at  present, 
of  course,  she  is  the  mainspring  of  everything  on  the 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 


317 


estate.  And  they  have  actually  made  her  this  last 
week  Vice-Chairman  of  the  County  War  Agricul- 
tural Committee.  She  refused,  but  they  made  her. 
Think  of  that — a woman — with  all  those  wise  men! 
She  asked  father’s  leave.  He  just  looked  at  her, 
and  I saw  the  tears  come  into  her  eyes. 

‘ As  to  Beryl  and  Aubrey,  he  was  here  last  Sun- 
day, and  she  spent  the  day  with  us.  He  seems  to 
lean  upon  her  in  a new  way — and  she  looks  different 
somehow — happier,  I think.  He  told  me,  the  day 
after  Desmond  died,  that  Dezzy  had  said  something 
to  him  that  had  given  him  courage — “ courage  to  go 
on,”  I think  he  said.  I didn’t  ask  him  what  he  meant, 
and  he  didn’t  tell  me.  But  I am  sure  he  has  told 
Beryl,  and  either  that — or  something  else — has 
made  her  more  confident  in  herself — and  about  him. 
They  are  to  be  married  quite  soon.  Last  week 
father  sent  him,  without  a word,  a copy  of  his  will. 
Aubrey  says  it  is  very  fair.  Mannering  goes  to  him, 
of  course.  You  know  that  Elizabeth  refused  to 
witness  the  codicil  father  wrote  last  October  disin- 
heriting Aubrey,  when  he  was  so  mad  with  Sir 
Henry?  It  was  the  first  thing  that  made  father  take 
real  notice  of  her.  She  had  only  been  six  weeks 
here ! 

‘ Good-night,  my  dearest,  dearest  Arthur  I Don’t 
be  too  much  disappointed  in  me.  I shall  grow  up 
some  day.’ 

A few  days  later  the  Squire  came  back  from  Fal- 
lerton  to  find  nobody  in  the  house,  apparently,  but 
himself.  He  went  through  the  empty  hall  and  the 
library,  and  shut  himself  up  there.  He  carried  an 
evening  paper  crumpled  in  his  hand.  It  contained  a 
detailed  report  of  the  breaking  of  the  Portuguese 


3i8  ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 

centre  near  Richebourg  St.  Vaast  on  April  lo,  and 
the  consequent  retreat,  over  some  seven  miles,  since 
that  day  of  the  British  line,  together  with  the  more 
recent  news  of  the  capture  of  Armentieres  and  Mer- 
ville.  Sitting  down  at  his  own  table  he  read  the 
telegrams  again,  and  then  in  the  stop-press  Sir 
Douglas  Haig’s  Order  of  the  Day — 

' There  is  no  other  course  open  to  us  hut  to  fight 
it  out.  Every  position  must  be  held  to  the  last  man: 
there  must  be  no  retirement.  With  our  backs  to  the 
wall,  and  believing  in  the  justice  of  our  cause,  each 
one  of  us  must  fight  to  the  end.  The  safety  of  our 
homes  and  the  freedom  of  mankind  depend  alike 
upon  the  conduct  of  each  one  of  us  at  this  critical 
moment.^ 

The  Squire  read  and  re-read  the  words.  He  was 
sitting  close  to  the  tall  French  window  where  through 
some  fine  spring  days  Desmond  had  lain,  his  half- 
veiled  eyes  wandering  over  the  woods  and  green 
spaces  which  had  been  his  childhood’s  companions. 
There — submissive  for  himself,  but,  for  England’s 
sake,  and  so  that  his  mind  might  receive  as  long 
as  possible  the  impress  of  her  fate,  an  ardent  wrestler 
with  Death  through  each  disputed  hour — he  had 
waited;  and  there,  with  the  word  England  on  his 
lips,  he  had  died.  The  Squire  could  still  see  the 
marks  made  on  the  polished  floor  by  the  rolling 
backward  of  the  bed  at  night.  And  on  the  wall  near 
there  was  a brown  mark  on  the  wall-paper.  He  re- 
membered that  it  had  been  made  by  a splash  from 
a bowl  of  disinfectant,  and  that  he  had  stared  at  it 
one  morning  in  a dumb  torment  which  seemed  end- 
less, because  Desmond  had  woke  in  pain  and  the 
morphia  was  slow  to  act. 

England!  His  boy  was  dead — -.and  his  country 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 


319 


had  its  back  to  the  wall.  And  he — what  had  he  done 
for  England,  all  these  years  of  her  struggle?  His 
carelessness,  his  indifference  returned  upon  him — 
his  mad  and  selfish  refusal,  day  by  day,  to  give  his 
mind,  or  his  body,  or  his  goods,  to  the  motherland 
that  bore  him. 

‘ Is  it  nothing  to  you,  all  ye  that  pass  hyf  ' 

No — it  had  been  nothing  to  him.  But  Desmond, 
his  boy,  had  given  everything.  And  the  death- 
struggle  was  still  going  on.  ‘Each  one  of  us  must 
fight  on  to  the  end.’  Before  his  eyes  there  passed 
the  spectacle  of  the  Army,  as  he  had  actually  seen 
it — a division,  for  instance,  on  the  march  near  the 
Salient,  rank  after  rank  of  young  faces,  the  brown 
cheeks  and  smiling  eyes,  the  swing  of  the  lithe  bodies. 
And  while  he  sat  there  in  the  quiet  of  the  April 
evening,  thousands  of  boys  like  Desmond  were  offer- 
ing those  same  lithe  bodies  to  the  Kaiser’s  guns  with- 
out murmur  or  revolt  because  England  asked  it. 
Now  he  knew  what  it  meant — now  he  knew! 

There  was  a knock  at  the  door,  and  the  sound  of 
something  heavy  descending.  The  Squire  gave  a 
dull  ‘ Come  in.’  Forest  entered,  dragging  a large 
bale  behind  him.  He  looked  nervously  at  his 
master. 

‘ These  things  have  just  come  from  France,  sir.’ 

The  Squire  started.  He  walked  over  in  silence  to 
look  while  Forest  opened  the  case.  Desmond’s  kit, 
his  clothes,  his  few  books,  a stained  uniform,  a writ- 
ing-case, with  a number  of  other  miscellaneous 
things. 

Forest  spread  them  out  on  the  floor,  his  lips 
trembling.  On  several  nights  before  the  end  Des- 
mond had  asked  for  him,  and  he  had  shared  the 
Squire’s  watch. 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 


520 

‘That’ll  do,’  said  the  Squire  presently;  ‘ I’U  look 
over  them  myself!’ 

Forest  went  away.  After  shutting  the  door  he 
saw  Elizabeth  coming  along  the  library  passage,  and 
stopped  to  speak  to  her. 

‘ The  things  have  just  come  from  France,  Miss,’ 
he  said  in  a low  voice. 

Elizabeth  hesitated,  and  was  turning  back,  when 
the  library  door  opened  and  the  Squire  called  her. 

‘ Yes,  Mr.  Mannering.’ 

‘ Will  you  come  here,  please,  a moment?  ’ 

She  entered  the  room,  and  the  Squire  closed  the 
door  behind  her,  pointing  mutely  to  the  things  on 
the  floor. 

The  tears  sprang  to  her  eyes.  She  knelt  down 
to  look  at  them. 

‘ Do  you  remember  anything  about  this?  ’ he  said, 
holding  out  a little  book.  It  was  the  pocket  An- 
thology she  had  found  for  Desmond  on  the  day  of 
his  going  into  camp.  As  she  looked  through  it  she 
saw  a turned-down  leaf,  and  seemed  still  to  hear 
the  boy’s  voice,  as  he  hung  over  her  shoulder  trans- 
lating the  epigram 

‘Shame  on  you,  mountains  and  seas!’ 

With  a sv  ’ling  throat  she  told  the  story.  The 
Squire  listened,  and  when  afterwards  she  offered 
the  book  to  him  again,  he  put  it  back  into  her  hand, 
with  some  muttered  words  which  she  interpreted  as 
bidding  her  keep  it. 

She  put  it  away  in  the  drawer  of  her  writing-table, 
which  had  been  brought  back  to  its  old  place  only 
that  morning.  The  Squire  himself  went  to  his  own 
desk. 

‘ Will  you  sit  there  ? ’ He  pointed  to  her  chair. 
‘ I want  to  speak  to  you.’ 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 


321 


Then  after  a pause  he  added  slowly,  ‘ Will  you 
tell  me — what  you  think  I can  now  do  with  my 
time  ? ’ 

His  voice  had  a curious  monotony — unlike  its 
usual  tone.  But  Elizabeth  divined  a coming  crisis. 
She  went  very  white. 

‘ Dear  Mr.  Mannering — I don’t  know  what  to 
say — except  that  the  country  seems  to  want  every- 
thing that  each  one  of  us  can  do.’ 

‘ Have  you  read  Haig’s  Order  of  the  Day?  ’ 

‘ Yes,  I have  just  read  it.’ 

The  Squire’s  eyes,  fixed  upon  her,  had  a strange 
intensity. 

‘ You  and  I have  never  known — never  dreamt — 
of  anything  like  this.’ 

‘ No — never.  But  England  has  had  her  back  to 
the  wall  before ! ’ 

She  sat  proudly  erect,  her  hands  quietly  crossed. 
But  he  seemed  to  hear  the  beating  of  her  heart. 

‘ You  mean  when  Pitt  said,  “ Roll  up  the  map  of 
Europe  ”?  Yes — that  too  was  vital.  But  the  peo- 
ple at  home  scarcely  knew  it — and  it  was  not  a war 
of  machines.’ 

‘ No  matter!  England  will  never  yield.’ 

‘ Till  Germany  is  on  her  knees?  ’ His  long  bony 
face,  more  lined,  more  emaciated  than  ever,  seemed 
to  catch  a sombre  glow  from  hers. 

‘Yes — though  it  last  ten  years!  But  the  Amer- 
icans are  hurrying.’ 

‘ Are  all  women  like  you  ? ’ 

Her  mouth  trembled  into  scorn. 

‘ Oh,  think  of  the  women  whose  shoe-strings  I am 
not  worthy  to  unloose! — the  nurses,  the  French 
peasant-women,  the  women  who  have  given  their 
husbands — ^their  sons.’ 


322 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 


His  look  showed  his  agitation. 

‘ So  we  are  to  be  saved — by  boys  like  Desmond — 
and  women  like  you  ? ’ 

‘ Oh,  I am  a cypher — a nothing!  ’ There  was  a 
passionate  humiliation  in  her  voice.  ‘ I should  be 
nursing  in  France ’ 

‘ If  it  weren’t  for  your  mother  and  your  sister?  ’ 

She  nodded.  There  was  a pause.  Then  the 
Squire  said,  in  a different  tone, 

‘ But  you  have  not  answered  my  question.  I 
should  be  obliged  if  you  would  answer  it.  How 
am  I,  being  I — how  is  a man  of  my  kind  to  fill  his 
time — and  live  his  life?  If  the  country  is  in  deadly 
peril — if  the  ground  is  shaking  beneath  our  feet — 
if  we  are  to  go  on  fighting  for  years,  with  “ our 
backs  to  the  wall,”  even  I can’t  go  on  cataloguing 
Greek  vases.  I acknowledge  that  now.  So  much  I 
grant  you.  But  what  else  am  I good  for?  ’ 

The  colour  flushed  in  her  fair  skin,  and  her  eyes 
filled  again  with  tears. 

‘ Come  and  help  I ’ she  said  simply.  ‘ There  is  so 
much  to  do.  And  for  you — a large  landowner — 
there  is  everything  to  do.’ 

His  face  darkened. 

‘ Yes,  if  I had  the  courage  for  it.  But  morally  I 
am  a weakling — you  know  it.  Do  you  remember 
that  I once  said  to  you  if  Desmond  fell,  I should  go 
with  him — or  after  him?  ’ 

She  waited  a moment  before  replying,  and  then 
said  with  energy,  ‘ That  would  be  just  desertion  I — 
he  would  tell  you  so.’ 

Their  eyes  met,  and  the  passion  in  hers  subdued 
him.  It  was  a strange  dialogue,  as  though  between 
two  souls  bared  and  stripped  of  everything  but  the 
realities  of  feeling. 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN  323 

‘ Would  it  be?  That  might  be  argued.  But  any- 
way I should  have  done  it — the  very  night  Desmond 
died — but  for  you  ! ’ 

‘ For  me?  ’ she  said,  shading  her  eyes  with  a hand 
that  trembled.  ‘ No,  Mr.  Mannering,  you  could  not 
have  done  such  a thing! — for  your  honour’s  sake — 
for  your  children’s  sake.’ 

‘ Neither  would  have  restrained  me.  I was  held 
to  life  by  one  thread — one  hope  only — ’ 

She  was  silent. 

‘ — the  hope  that  if  I was  to  put  my  whole  life  to 
school  again — to  burn  what  I had  adored,  and  adore 
what  I had  burned — the  one  human  being  in  the 
world  who  could  teach  me  such  a lesson — who  had 
begun  to  teach  it  me — would  stand  by  me — would 
put  her  hand  in  mine — and  lead  me.’ 

His  voice  broke  down.  Elizabeth,  shaken  from 
head  to  foot,  could  only  hide  her  face  and  wait. 
Even  the  strength  to  protest — ‘ Not  now ! — not  yet ! ’ 
seemed  to  have  gone  from  her.  He  went  on  vehe- 
mently : 

‘ Oh,  don’t  imagine  that  I am  making  you  an 
ordinary  proposal— or  that  I am  going  to  repeat  to 
you  the  things  I said  to  you — like  a fool — in  Cross 
Wood.  Then  I offered  you  a bargain — and  I see 
now  that  you  despised  me  as  a huckster!  You  were 
to  help  my  hobby;  I was  to  help  yours.  That  was 
all  I could  find  to  say.  I didn’t  know  how  to  tell 
you  that  all  the  happiness  of  my  life  depended  on 
your  staying  at  Mannering.  I was  unwilling  to 
acknowledge  it  even  to  myself.  I have  been  accus- 
tomed to  put  sentiment  aside — to  try  and  ignore  it. 
To  feel  as  I did  was  itself  so  strange  a thing  to 
me,  that  I struggled  to  express  it  as  prosaically  as 
possible.  Well,  then,  you  were  astonished — and  re- 


324 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 


pelled.  That  I saw — I realized  It  indeed  more  and 
more.  I saw  that  I had  perhaps  done  a fatal  thing, 
and  I spent  much  time  brooding  and  thinking.  I 
felt  an  acute  distress,  such  as  I had  never  felt  in 
my  life  before — so  much  so  that  I began  even  to 
avoid  you,  because  I used  to  say  to  myself — “ She 
will  go  away  some  day — perhaps  soon — and  I must 
accustom  myself  to  it.”  And  yet ’ 

He  lifted  the  hand  that  shaded  his  eyes,  and  gave 
her  a long  touching  look. 

‘ Yet  I felt  sometimes  that  you  knew  what  was 
happening  in  me — and  were  sorry  for  me.  Then 
came  the  news  of  Desmond.  Of  those  days  while  he 
lay  here — of  the  days  since — I seem  to  know  now 
hardly  anything  in  detail.  One  of  the  officers  at 
the  front  said  to  me  that  on  the  Somme  he  often  lost 
all  count  of  time,  of  the  days  of  the  week,  of  the 
sequence  of  things.  It  seemed  to  be  all  one  present 
— one  awful  and  torturing  now.  So  it  is  with  me. 
Desmond  is  always  here  ’ — he  pointed  to  the  vacant 
space  by  the  window — ‘ and  you  are  always  sitting 
by  him.  And  I know  that  if  you  go  away — and  I am 
left  alone  with  my  poor  boy — though  I shall  never 
cease  to  hear  the  things  he  said  to  me — the  things 
he  asked  me  to  do — I shall  have  no  strength  to  do 
them.  I cannot  rise  and  walk — unless  you  help 
me.’ 

Elizabeth  could  hardly  speak.  She  was  In  pres- 
ence of  that  tremendous  thing  in  human  experience 
— the  emergence  of  a man’s  Inmost  self.  That 
the  Squire  could  speak  so — could  feel  so — that  the 
man  whose  pupil  and  bond-slave  she  had  been  in 
those  early  weeks  should  be  making  this  piteous 
claim  upon  her,  throwing  upon  her  the  weight  of  his 
whole  future  life,  of  his  sorrow,  of  his  reaction 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 


325 


against  himself,  overwhelmed  her.  It  appealed  to 
that  instinctive,  that  boundless  tenderness  which  lies 
so  deep  in  the  true  woman. 

But  her  will  seemed  paralysed.  She  did  not  know 
how  to  act — she  could  find  no  words  that  pleased 
her.  The  Squire  saw  it,  and  began  to  speak  again 
in  the  same  low  measured  voice,  as  though  he  groped 
his  way  along,  from  point  to  point.  Lie  sat  with 
his  eyes  on  the  floor,  his  hands  loosely  clasped  be- 
fore him. 

‘ I don’t,  of  course,  dare  to  ask  you  to  say — at 
once — if  you  will  be  my  wife.  I dread  to  ask  it — 
for  I am  tolerably  certain  that  you  would  still  say 
no.  But  if  only  now  you  would  say,  “ I will  go  on 
with  my  work  here — I will  help  a man  who  is  weak 
where  I am  strong — I will  show  him  new  points  of 
view — give  him  new  reasons  for  living ” ’ 

Elizabeth  could  only  just  check  the  sobs  in  her 
throat.  The  sad  humility  of  the  words  pierced  her 
heart. 

The  Squire  raised  himself  a little,  and  spoke 
more  firmly. 

‘ Why  should  there  be  any  change  yet  awhile  ? 
Only  stay  with  us.  Use  my  land — use  me  and  all  I 
possess — for  the  country — for  what  Desmond  would 
have  helped  in — and  done.  Show  me  what  to  do. 
I shall  do  it  ill.  But  what  matter?  Every  little 
helps.  “ We  have  our  backs  to  the  wall.”  I have 
the  power  to  give  you  power.  Teach  me.’ 

Then  reaching  out,  he  took  her  hand  in  his.  His 
voice  deepened  and  strengthened. 

‘ Elizabeth ! — ^be  my  friend — my  children’s  friend. 
Bring  your  poor  mother  here — and  your  sister — ^till 
Pamela  goes.  Then  tell  me — what  you  decide.  You 
shall  give  me  no  pledge — no  promise.  You  shall  be 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 


326 

absolutely  free.  But  together  let  us  do  a bit  of 
work,  a bit  of  service.’ 

She  looked  up.  The  emotion,  the  sweetness  in 
her  face  dazzled  him. 

‘ Yes,’  she  said  gravely — ‘ I will  stay.’ 

He  drew  a long  breath,  and  stooping  over  the 
hands  she  had  given  him,  he  kissed  them. 

Then  he  released  her  and,  rising,  walked  away. 
The  portrait  of  Desmond  had  been  brought  back, 
but  it  stood  with  its  face  to  the  wall.  He  went  to  it 
and  turned  it.  It  shone  out  into  the  room,  under 
the  westering  sun.  He  looked  at  it  a little — while 
Elizabeth  with  trembling  fingers  began  to  re-arrange 
her  table  in  the  old  way. 

Then  he  returned  to  her,  speaking  In  the  dry, 
slightly  peremptory  voice  she  knew  well. 

‘ I hear  the  new  buildings  at  the  Holme  Hill 
Farm  are  nearly  ready.  Come  and  look  at  them 
to-morrow.  And  there  are  some  woods  over  there 
that  would  be  worth  examining.  The  Air  Board  is 
still  clamouring  for  more  ash.’ 

Elizabeth  agreed.  Her  smile  was  a gleam  through 
the  mist. 

‘ And,  on  the  way  back,  Pamela  and  I must  go 
and  talk  to  the  village — about  pigs  and  potatoes ! ’ 

‘ Do  you  really  know  anything  about  either?  ’ he 
asked,  incredulously. 

‘ Come  and  hear  us!  ’ 

There  was  silence.  The  Squire  threw  the  window 
open  to  the  April  sunset.  The  low  light  was  shining 
through  the  woods,  and  on  the  reddening  tops  of 
the  beeches.  There  was  a sparkle  of  leaf  here  and 
there,  and  already  a ‘ livelier  emerald  ’ showed  in 
the  grass.  Suddenly  a low  booming  sound — re- 
peated— and  repeated. 


ELIZABETH’S  CAMPAIGN 


327 


‘Guns?’  said  the  Squire,  listening. 

Elizabeth  reminded  him  of  the  new  artillery  camp 
beyond  Fallerton. 

But  the  sounds  had  transformed  the  April  evening. 
The  woods,  the  grass,  the  wood-pigeons  in  the  park 
had  disappeared.  The  thoughts  of  both  the  on- 
lookers had  gone  across  the  sea  to  that  hell  of  smoke 
and  fire,  in  which  their  race — in  which  England! — 
stood  at  bay.  A few  days — or  weeks — or  months, 
would  decide. 

The  vastness  of  the  issue,  as  it  came  flooding  in 
upon  the  soul  of  Elizabeth,  seemed  to  strain  her 
very  life — to  make  suspense  unbearable. 

An  anguish  seized  her,  and  unconsciously  her  lips 
framed  the  passionate  words  of  an  older  patriotism — 

‘Oh!  pray — pray  for  the  peace  of  Jerusalem! 
They  shall  prosper  that  love  thee!  * 


THE  END 


